


Ser

by RenShep



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Hawke drinks too much, Inapropriate Hawke, Rivalmance, Romance, Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:36:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 41,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenShep/pseuds/RenShep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke finds she enjoys pushing Cullen; Cullen demonstrates great restraint. She considers him a (gorgeous) prig, he considers her a (tempting) pest. Tension ensues.  A passionate rivalmance between an impulsive apostate Hawke and the uptight Knight-Captain of Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

He'd never forget the moment he first saw her, then again, she was not the type of woman one easily forgot. Her voice first caught his attention, as she hurled accusations and insults at him, threatening him and mocking the Order in turn. He'd turned to see her approaching with determined strides. There were few who would risk getting on the bad side of any Templar, let alone a Captain, but she didn't seem to be to be cowed by it in the least. She didn't seem the sort to be cowed by anything.

She was encased in leather armor. It was not the highest quality, but well fitted and well cared for. Her face was more striking than beautiful, with high cheekbones tinged pink from her anger, a firm jaw, her nose a touch too long and her mouth a touch too wide mouth. Her hair was near black, pulled back in a messy bun; her raven wing brows drawn together in a frown above deeply set grey eyes.

She hadn't been alone, though at the time he'd not even glanced at her companions. She had that effect, he would come to eventually realize, naturally commanding attention for merely being herself. When she was present others were no more than an afterthought.

At the time however, he was not able to contemplate such things. His fears were realized when the recruit he had been interrogating split open and twisted into the grotesque form of a demon. He had drawn his sword immediately and focused upon his foe, but he didn't fail to note that her blades joined his as she jumped fearlessly into fray. She was a whirlwind; her daggers flashing with impossible speed, weaving between the hissing shapes and striking effectively. Within minutes the demon and it's attendants had been cut down, and he would have been a fool to think he could have handled it alone.

When he turned his eyes upon her next she'd stood calmly among the ash and gore, a half smile upon her face. She'd wiped blackened blood from her blades, smearing it across her leathers, and re-sheathed them over her shoulders, leveling him with her gaze as she approached. He knew at that moment precisely what she was. Chaos.

Her tone had been no less accusing when the battle was won, but he'd asked for her aid just the same. Despite the hard glint in her eye she followed through. In fact, she'd proved herself to be more than he'd expected.

No, he'd never forget the moment he met her.

The plot she'd uncovered had been sinister, a vile plan to seed the order with possessed recruits. She destroyed the pack of blood mages who had wrought the evil and managed to save a life as well. She returned to the Gallows with the missing recruit and a tale which would have been difficult to believe without proof.

When he'd told the Knight-Commander about Tarohne and her ilk, and the plan that Hawke had uncovered, she had seemed to be suitably impressed. But impressed or not Meredith had disparaged that such aid had come from a Ferelden refugee. Cullen found it strange; that she would say such a thing to him, though their reasons may have been different he was as much an emigrant as Hawke was.

"Keep an eye on this Hawke," Meredith had said, "At least until we can know whether she's friend or foe. I do not trust these refugee's taking over the city."

Keeping account of Hawke's actions proved a simple thing to do. Her name was on the lips of many, her exploits told city wide. The story of the Ferelden girl come to Kirkwall to restore her family name was told by many. He knew that wasn't entirely true, he knew that like many she'd been fleeing the blight. But as it turned out Hawke was in fact the eldest grandchild of a lesser noble family, the Amell's, who'd since fallen into ruin.

Within two years she'd earned the respect of the Qunari, saved the life of the Viscount's son, had ruined the Guard Captain and pushed a Ferelden in his place, and had, of course, foiled a plot to tear apart the Order from the inside out. She'd also undertaken an expedition; returning with riches enough to restore her family's former estate.

Over the years her appearance in the Gallows, though not frequent, was common enough a sight to be seen. Their relationship had... changed over that time. She was a woman who knew how to read people, and enjoyed toying with them besides. Their interactions turned into something hostile and heated. Her beliefs about mages were at war with his own; yet the exquisite tension between them was impossible to deny. But deny he did.

Cullen had learned long ago what danger can lie behind an alluring face. He'd overcome the blushing, bashful fool he'd once been, stuttering over apprentices and sisters alike. He had survived imprisonment and torture only to become stronger for it; and he'd felt the enticing touch of a demon without submitting to desire.

Certainly he could remain cool and detached with one irksome woman who scorned the duties he held so sacred.

Hawke, however, proved to be a trial.


	2. Chapter 2

"Congratulations on your promotion, Knight-Captain. It seems the Knight-Commander continues to favor you." Cullen caught himself from grimacing at the sound of her voice. Her flippant insinuation his teeth on edge, though she was not the first to imply such a thing. It wasn't true of course.  He'd earned his position, _more_ than earned it, but _not_ like that.  But, of course, Hawke _would_ assume the worst of him. 

He steeled his face into an impassive mask before turning on his heel to address her. "Serah Hawke, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He kept his tone as neutral as possible but couldn't quite stop the bite of annoyance which came with his words.

She tilted her head as she regarded him, one corner of her mouth pulling up in a crooked smile. She carried herself with a cocky bravado that always managed to irritate him.  He knew her confidence had been well earned, had heard of her exploits and had even seen her in action himself.  She was tall and lean and didn't have the curves most men favored, but he knew those long limbs held more strength than one would assume. She was a dangerous creature. More over, she _knew_ she was a dangerous creature and he knew better than to underestimate her.

Maker, he hated her.

Tall as she was, standing this closely she had to tip her head back to look him in the eye, which gave him some small measure of satisfaction.

"You don't believe I would I would stop by simply to offer my congratulations?" She asked in mock offense.

"I don't believe, serah Hawke, that you do _anything_ without reason." And he didn't. She was far too cunning for her own good, and... something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. His templar training whispered mage whenever he saw her and yet no one ever spoke even a word of it, nor had he witnessed anything to indicate such a possibility. He'd thought, once or twice, he'd seen a waver, felt a pull of the veil around her, but it had been so brief, so faint he couldn't be certain.  In fact, faint as it was, it was more likely than not some amulet or ring she wore bearing a weak enchantment. Still, she set his instincts on alert, which was reason enough to be wary.

She continued to smile up at him.

One of these days he was going to smite her just to see what happened.

Her smile became brighter, as though she read his thoughts and was offering him a challenge. "You know me better than I give you credit for, Knight-Captain," she said, dropping her voice to a seductive timbre, "Have you been keeping your eyes on me?"

As a matter of fact, he had.

"No more than I feel is absolutely necessary, serah." He responded coolly.

A figure standing behind her shifted, "Sister, please don't antagonize the Templar." Ah, the brother.  He'd all but forgotten she even had one, and hadn't noticed that the young man in question had been standing there. He glanced at the other Hawke.  He was tall and lean like her with dark hair and light eyes, yet he was completely without her self possession or challenging gaze. In fact, he seemed quite ordinary when compared to his sibling, a point which undoubtedly rankled the boy.

Cullen glanced down at Hawke again, she held his gaze while speaking over her shoulder, "Oh come now Carver, how many times have I had to watch you trip over your tongue flirting with Isabela? Let me have my fun."

On her other side her beardless dwarf spoke up. "You really should be paying attention, little Hawke. You could stand to learn a thing or two."

"Fine," the boy grumbled, looking at them both in disgust. "Have your _fun_. But if you wind up with a Templar sword in your belly don't come running to me," with a huff he turned and left.

When her brother was out of earshot she leaned forward and whispered, "Tell me, ser, do you have a desire to thrust your Templar sword into me?" Her voice dropped to something velvety and dangerous, her grey eyes glittering beneath her lashes.

He narrowed his own gaze in return, his patience wearing thin. " _What_ is it you want, Hawke?" he asked bluntly.

She sighed dejectedly, and said in a bored tone, "I came to inform you of certain unsavory rumors regarding some of your fellows."

He frowned. He hated that she would be the one to bring him something related to the Order, "What have you heard?"

"Lyrium smugglers have set up in some caves on the coast. Seems the ringleader is one of your lieutenants. While I know you Templars must feed your _addiction_ ," she smirked up at him, drawing out the word, "the smugglers are likely responsible not only for the death of two guardsmen, but also a group of Dalish hunters who were returning to their clan. I _highly_ doubt that the latter concerns you though."

He ignored the implication, "Where?"

She pulled a scrap of paper from one of her pockets and handed him the crudely drawn map. "As you know, _ser_ , I've friends within the guard." She stepped forward threateningly, her gaze steely, "I do _not_ appreciate my friends being put in needless danger."

He felt his lip curling in anger at her accusation, as though he was personally responsible for the smuggling operation, but managed to stop himself. He'd not allow her to get the best of him. In the most pleasant tone he could muster he asked, "And you thought to bring this matter to me rather than the Guard Captain? I'm surprised."

"As you've stated I rarely do things without reason, and as I've stated you know me quite well. I took the matter to the Avenline first, but the guard is short on coin these days and didn't want to waste any on Templar business. You wouldn't know anyone who could help a poor girl out, would you?" She continued to smile at him as she spoke, her teeth remarkably white and even, lips impossibly lush.

"Of course, you come for a promise of gold," he grated.

Rumors had been floating throughout Hightown that Hawke was too ambitious for her own good. He could understand the rumors; she'd certainly risen in the city, and had made powerful allies along the way. But he didn't believe she cared for political gain.  No, he thought she was far more interested in coin. Greedy perhaps, grasping, no. In fact, outside of providing for her family, she didn't seem to have any direction at all.

Which was probably why she spent so much time vexing him.

That look crossed her face again, the one which made him want to grind his teeth.  Or strangle her.  Or both.

"You want to know what else makes me _come_ , Ser?"

He ignored the blatant provocation and considered his options. He didn't like having to employ her services. For one it meant he'd have to see her again, which came with the usual headaches. Secondly, he didn't want her to have any more information on the order than she already had, which already far more than she should. He might not think she was overtly ambitious, but there was never a way to be certain, and he couldn't find it in himself to trust her.

He'd learned before coming to Kirkwall that trust misplaced could spell disaster. 

It seemed, this time, the choice was made for him. She _was_ always discreet, and this type of situation required a great deal of discretion. Lyrium addiction was, unfortunately, part and parcel of the Templar life.  Technically, even if you used it only in the prescribed amounts you were already addicted; and with all things, it seemed, some people craved more.  Though Cullen despised such weakness, overuse of the substance was problematic, and rehabilitating those who had succumbed to such temptation was both a difficult and dangerous process; and was more often than not completely unsuccessful. He knew that if he handled the smuggling situation himself he would need to employ his men. If the Templar contact was indeed one of his lieutenants as she claimed, his investigation would likely not get far. An outsider would have an easier time of it, and Hawke was more than capable.

Decision made he nodded. "Very well. Should you deal with the smugglers you have my word that you will be compensated." He thought for a moment before adding, "If you can get information as to who the lieutenant in question is, and back it up with proof, you'll receive an additional sum.  I'll see to it myself."

She grinned up at him. "I knew you would see it my way." She leaned forward and said in a low purr, "And since you've been so agreeable, ser, perhaps I'll even compensate you in return." She gave him a saucy wink before she turned and walked in the direction her brother had wandered.

As he watched her leave he trained his eyes on the back of her head. He did not lower his gaze. He did not allow his eyes to follow the long line of her back, did not allow them to take in the curve of her heart shaped arse, her long supple legs or swaying gait. She was an unpredictable creature, in most aspects, but he was familiar with this game of hers, and he knew exactly how she played it.

She was nine paces from him before she turned back to smile at him one last time.

When she turned away the second time he allowed, for just a moment, his gaze to drop.


	3. Chapter 3

Hawke couldn't stop smiling to herself as she walked away from the Knight-Captain. She truly wasn't a flirt or a tease. Okay, she _was_ a flirt and a tease, but never like that; never so forward, and rarely even half as suggestive... But whenever she spoke with the Knight-Captain she just couldn't help herself.

She remembered the first time she met him. The circumstances were hard to forget, then again, so was he. The chisled jaw, the long straight nose, firm mouth, not to mention the eyes. Oh Maker, those eyes.  Templar or not he was without a doubt the finest looking man she had possibly ever seen . Despite the fact that she'd nearly been bowled over by his good looks, he eventually had to open his mouth to speak. Typical chantry rhetoric, the kind she had heard a thousand times before. Well, perhaps not _typical_. He was more dedicated than some, more sincere in his mistrust of mages, and more rigid in his beliefs than most. There was a story there, she could tell, though what it involved she had no idea.

And so, it was true, the first time she saw him she was struck smitten and then unstruck almost immediately. She still found him handsome, she had two eyes after all. But other than a few appreciative gazes when he wasn't looking, she kept their relationship entirely professional. 

Then one day, several months after they'd met, she'd bumped into him - literally.

She'd left the Hanged Man in the wee hours of the morning to weave her way to her good uncle's shack. The sky was just lightening into day and she hadn't been paying attention to where she was going, instead looking up as the last of the stars faded. It was due to her wandering eyes that she walked straight into a wall; a wall made of steel and leather and scented with lyrium.

Upon contact with said wall she landed on her ass in the middle of the street.

"Are you alright, miss?" the wall had asked as it reached down to help her to her feet.

Perhaps it was the whiskey she'd been swimming in half the night, Oh, who was she kidding, it was always the whiskey, but she opened her mouth all she could think to say was, "Well hello there, Ser _Gorgeou_ s."

A faint flush spread across his cheeks. Not much, mind you, but enough that even in her condition she'd noticed. Her balance hadn't caught up with her when she was upright again and she swayed, gripping his arms for balance and looking up into his chiseled face. "Maker you have beautiful eyes," she blurted out, watching, transfixed as his flush spread.

She saw his expression change as recognition dawned, "Hawke?" he asked, taking in her obviously inebriated state. "You're drunk," he accused with a frown.

His disapproval made her laugh, and delighted her to no end. "I am indeed, ser." She declared with a grin, her whiskey thick brain adding suggestively, "and I hope you're here to take advantage of me."

He stiffened at her words, "Pardon?"

She stood on the tips of her toes, using his broad shoulders for balance as she whispered directly in his ear. "You heard me, ser, I'd like nothing better than a personal tour beneath those robes of yours."

He took a step back, pulling her hands from his shoulders and clenching his jaw.  "I trust you can see yourself safely home?" He hesitated, as though he would have liked to add more, but instead he turned sharply on his heel and left her staring after him.

She had realized then and there that she had gotten to him. Through all that heavy plate and chantry rhetoric she'd found the man underneath - and she made him _twitch_.  It was intoxicating, to affect such a controlled and stringent prude of a man. She had smiled the rest of the walk to her uncle's home, picturing the blush on his high cheekbones. From that day forward whenever she saw the Knight-Captain she couldn't quite help herself.

"Hawke." A bemused voice brought her back to the present.

She glanced down at her companion. "Varric."

"I was curious... as long as I have known you, you've shown little interest in available men. Oh, sure you flirt, but not often, and _never_ like that. Yet every time you interact with Ser Stick-up-His-Ass you turn all..." He searched for the word; when it didn't produce himself he made one up, "Isabela-y."

She chuckled, "Did you just turn Isabela into an adjective?"

He shrugged. "Artistic license. Riviani would approve. Now, you and the Knight-Captain?"

She ignored him, "That was a very Varric-y thing to say."

"And that is a very Hawke-ish was of avoiding my question," he returned.

She laughed again, "You just want to find out if there are any gritty details you can weave into a story."

"Not at all," He held his hands up in innocence.  As though she were fool enough to buy it.  Predictably, he continued, "Believe it or not, I'm more than happy to make the details up.  I'm really just curious to hear the truth about you and Captain Cranky-Pants. And I'm not the only one, Aveline mentioned it the other week."

"Talk about someone who could stand to learn a thing or two," she joked.

"You're getting Hawke-ish again," he accused.

"Fine, fine." She shrugged, an amused expression still on her face. "It's nothing, really. Just a bit of fun."

She could see he clearly didn't believe her. "Your type of fun seems a bit dangerous... for someone like you."

"Perhaps that's it then? The _danger_..." she waggled her eyebrows and laughed.

"You know, I wouldn't put that past you, but it's more than that. Come on, you can tell me."

She looked back down at him, oh... what the hell. "Well, he is gorgeous, I won't deny that, but he's so bloody uptight. All straight laced and solem and laiden with chantry guilt," she rolled her eyes. "His idea of a 'night out' is probably spent on his knees in penance, and I don't mean the _fun_ kind."

"That's it?  You flirt with him because you think he's boring?"

"Boring _and_ handsome," she added, shrugging and giving him the only explanation she could. "I find it incredibly amusing to get under his skin so I can watch him react."

"That wasn't much of a reaction," he ventured.

"That is where you are wrong, my friend. That is a man of incredible self-control, any response he would have would be subtle. Did you not see the muscle in his jaw clench? The way his eyes narrowed? The way he snapped at me when he'd had enough of my ridiculous behavior?" She chuckled and continued with a broad smile and no small amount of pride, "He found me _particularly_ annoying today."

Varric snorted and remained unconvinced. "If you say so. But that's a lot of effort for little reward."

"But I enjoy the effort," she grinned. "I wouldn't worry about any danger, Varric. While I might manage to irritate him, ser Curmudgeon will ever fall for my _Isabela-y_ ways.  Besides, the man has probably never even lain with a woman. You know those chantry boys with their vows and their rules." She made a face and shrugged again.

"I wouldn't be so sure, Hawke. Despite what you may think, I happen to know for a fact that Ser Uptight back there once kept a certain Hightown widow as a mistress."

"No..." she said, surprised. She glanced at her friend out of the corner of her eye and could tell he wasn't making this up. "Really?"

"Most of them do, my dear. Even holier-than-tho Knight-Captains. Besides, I'm fairly certain Templars aren't required to take vows of chastity. Wasn't Aveline married to one?"

She frowned,"Hmph. You make a good point."

Varric spread his arms. "That's what I'm here for. To point out the obvious."

"I thought that was what Merrill was for?"

It was his turn to shrug, "I also fill in the gaps when the others aren't around."

She smiled down at him fondly. "I still wouldn't worry about Ser Stick-in-the-Mud. I just like seeing how far I can push him."

"Just be careful, Hawke. If you push a man too far you might just go over the edge with him." He said with a warning in his tone.

"Noted," she said with a nod. "Now, tell me all about this Hightown mistress. Don't leave anything out!"


	4. Chapter 4

The smugglers were easy to find, though much of that had to do with Varric's network of spies throughout the city. Taking them out proved to be a simple thing as well; though well-armed they were not well skilled. No Templar's were present within, but she hadn't expected any. She did, however come across some information which the Knight-Captain would likely pay handsomely for.

She'd nicked a few vials of lyrium for herself, and several more for Anders besides. With the hours he spent in his clinic he certainly had need of it more than she did. Her talents went mostly unused. She thanked the Maker almost every day that father had taught her to not rely on her magic unless absolutely necessary, and had suggested she take up arms when she'd proved to be too bold for her own good. It had gone a long way to ensuring her freedom, particularly since moving to Kirkwall.

It was getting late by the time they made it back to the city, and rather than trek to Hightown with Fenris she followed Varric and Anders to the Hanged Man. She needed some time among friends. The truth was, though she wouldn't say as much to Isabela, Hawke did miss slumming it in Lowtown. There was something about the stench of piss and desperation which reminded her of home.

The minute she stepped into the bar the pirate herself made herself known, sauntering over to them with her normal sultry flair. "Well, look what the cat finally dragged back to Lowtown," she said as they all made their way up to Varric's quarters.

"And good evening to you too, Isabela." Hawke grinned.

"What have the three of you been up to while I've been left here all on my own?" She pouted, "I've been bored."

Hawke snorted at that. Isabela was never alone. Where ever she went a bevy of suitors were soon to follow. She sat down at the large table they shared before answering, "Oh, just killing some bad guys," she said blandly before raising her mug to her lips.

"And pinching a bit of lyrium," added Anders.

"And watching Hawke throw herself at the Knight-Captain," finished Varric with a flourish.

Anders nearly choked on his drink and sent Hawke an affronted look. "Please tell me that was a joke."

"Sorry to disappoint, Blondie." Varric didn't seem sorry in the least, "It seems our Hawke is a bit of a deviant."

"Oooh, the Knight-Captain?" Isabela leaned forward eagerly, all tits and ears. "Is this some naughty Templar fantasy apostates have?"

"Varric, you just couldn't keep quiet a minute longer, could you?" Hawke moaned.

"Did you truly believe I would, serah?" The dwarf sounded far too amused.

Anders found less humor in the situation. "Do you have any clue how risky even speaking to him is?"

"That's all I was doing Anders, just speaking. Like I've done on and off for years now. He has no idea what I am and I am not an idiot." _Most of the time_.  "It's mostly harmless. I flirt, Ser Sexy gets angry and flushed, and then we part. That's all. It's funny."

Varric chimed in with his support, "It really is," he chuckled.

Isabela purred, "Mostly harmless?" From the gleam in Isabela's eye Hawke could see that the pirate wench had it already figured out. She knew that if the opportunity presented itself Hawke would happily climb onto Cullen's lap and ride him like a bronto, dangers be damned. The pirate could sometimes be a bit too observant, particularly in matters such as this.

Still, Hawke wasn't about to admit it, especially in front of Anders. "Fine. It's completely harmless. Satisfied?"

"No." Both Isabela and Anders said at the same time, though for very different reasons.

Varric decided to stop what he'd started, thank the Maker, and turned the conversation to other matters. She ordered another drink and tried to enjoy herself. Well, as much as the glare Anders kept sending her allowed her to. Really, for someone who thought all Templars were mage hating zealots he was terribly judgmental.

But she wouldn't allow his mood to ruin her evening. It was nice to be back in the Hanged Man, surrounded by her friends, Anders included, and sharing stories over a few pints and the occasional shot of whiskey. She threw her arm around the mage in question and gave him a squeeze. He smiled in return.

Since moving to Hightown her life had changed. Most of those changes were for the better. Her home was comfortable, her family was safe and they could want for nothing. But unless they had some business she didn't see her friends as often as she once did and missed their company. Even Fenris, who lived just around the corner, never spent much actual time in Hightown. Not that she blamed him for it.

Hawke knew she didn't fit with the nobles, didn't think she ever would. Her mother was constantly pushing her to mingle with the neighbors. But it's difficult to make small talk with strangers you have nothing in common with, and she had about as much in common with nobles as a street rat had with the viscount. And so, despite a home in Hightown and a well-known name, Hawke still found herself more comfortable in Lowtown with all its unsavory delights.

Though she'd tried to explain it to her mother, and had brought it up on several occasions, Mother had refused to accept it and insisted any daughter of hers should feel at home with the upper class. She had even go so far as to suggest, repeatedly, that Hawke begin considering suitable matches. As though a mage, no matter how skilled at hiding her talents, would ever dare settle down and raise a family in a city full of templars.

Besides, if she married, she'd have to change her behavior towards one Templar in particular.

And then what would she do for fun?

The thought made her grin.

And her amusement made her order another pint.

And then one thing led to another...


	5. Chapter 5

Cullen was exhausted by the time he had finished with his duties for the day. He'd spent more hours than was typical for him in the practice yard this afternoon, finding it necessary to work out some unwanted tension. Tension could be a distraction, and he could not afford to be anything but vigilant. He'd tested a few of the new recruits who were training and wound up doing so with more vigor than was necessary. But it had felt good, and deep within his muscles a comforting ache had settled.

Afternoon turned into evening and he'd found himself in his office dealing with several matters of business which could not wait. There was much of that as of late, it came with his promotion to Second-in-Command. There were a number of new responsibilities, more demands to be met, more people he was responsible for, but he had taken upon these new responsibilities with fervor. His position was one of respect, and he had every intention of maintaining it.

Being Knight-Captain had other benefits as well, of course. In addition to a hefty pay increase he also had an assistant, an elf who had not taken vows but was loyal to the order, without whom he'd be hard pressed to see to meet all demands made of him.

"I've sent your squire ahead to have a bath prepared and sent your supper to your rooms, ser," He looked up as his assistant entered.

"Thank you, Jaytham. That will be all." Cullen stood and stretched, his back was stiff and he knew he should have changed out of his armor before he sat down at his desk, but had simply failed to do so and eventually got too caught up with work to even think about it. Having worn it nearly the entirety of the day it had grown heavy and uncomfortable and he was looking forward to removing it. He closed his office door, locking it behind him, and made his way to his rooms.

His own quarters, his very own private retreat at the end of the day. To a man who grew up in a chantry orphanage, then moved directly into barracks, the idea of having a space all one's own was a novelty, one which he cherished. Though the higher ranking knights might have the illusion of privacy with their strategically placed screens, an illusion was all it really was.

His rooms were modest, a good sized bedchamber and smaller room for bathing, but they were neat and organized and his. A comfortable chair faced the small hearth, a thick carpet covered the floor, and a row of shelves held the books and scrolls he'd collected. The large feather bed was comfortable, with soft linen sheets, down pillows and a heavy quilt.

He removed his weapons and set them on their rack as he entered. "Your bath is ready, ser." This came from his squire, a boy raised by the chantry much as Cullen had been. Davith was a smart lad who understood Cullen's exacting standards and never made the same mistake twice. Someday the boy would take his vows and become a Templar, just as Cullen had. The cycle as old as the order itself.

He nodded towards him. "Thank you. Help me remove my armor and you can take the rest of the evening off."

Davith did as he was asked efficiently, expertly unbuckling the heavy plate and hanging it on the armor stand. He would rise before Cullen in the morning and have it cleaned and ready by the time it was needed again. Cullen sighed when the last of it was removed and hung on it's stand. The lad helped Cullen out of his boots before bidding him good night.

Alone at last he removed his robes and hung it in the armoire, then pulled his linen shirt over his head, letting out a pleasant sigh as his sore muscles stretched. He moved towards the small chamber off the main room to bathe, but stopped short when a voice came from behind him. His hand went to his waist out of habit, and he cursed himself for having removed his dagger.

"I can see why Meredith likes keeping you close, Knight-Captain. Shame the rest of us only get to see you wearing all that plate and robing."

A burst of anger heated his skin. He spun on his heel and found her easily, sitting comfortably before the fire, drinking _his_ wine. His eyes narrowed dangerously. How both he and his squire had missed her presence he didn't know, but it immediately raised his hackles and her presence in his rooms made his blood boil. Who did this bold woman think she was, to sneak into his sanctuary uninvited? His hands clenched and unclenched, fighting the urge to wrap themselves around her pretty neck. He breathed deeply through his nose, attempting to get ahold of his rage before he trusted himself to speak.

Her voice filled the silence. "For a while there I thought that under your plate you wore a second set of armor, and so on. Like one of those Orleasian nesting dolls, until you were no larger than a cat." She laughed at her own absurd comment and took another sip of wine.

He did not share her humor. "This area is off limits, Hawke. I demand to know how you got in here." She had to have crossed at least three guard postings to make it to his quarters. At least. Were his men so lax in their duties? Or perhaps the rogue had seduced her way through them; he would not put such a thing past her. The thought intensified the growl which had settled in his throat.

She put down his wine goblet, stood and rounded the chair she'd been sitting in. She was wearing her armor, very high quality compared to what she wore when they'd first met; beautifully crafted leather and chain which enhanced her athletic build. She was fully armed as well, the grips of her twin daggers visible over her shoulders. Her eyes raked over his naked chest languidly.

"As you know, ser, I am a very resourceful woman." She stood within reach of him now, he could almost feel a tangible pull of her presence, as though is body was responding to the siren's call of hers.

He growled, "I never doubted it, serah, but you've never been particularly foolish either." He leaned forward menacingly, "Yet here I find you treading dangerous territory." He caught the scent of spirits on her. "You're drunk," he accused.

"Indeed," she replied with a charmingly lopsided smile.

He resisted the urge to strangle her, again. "I should have you arrested for your trespass, but I don't wish to deal with the questions which would undoubtedly rise.  I will not call for the guard, provided you leave quietly." He folded his arms across his chest and gave her an icy glare. "And since you let yourself in I assume you're capable of letting yourself out."

"You are correct, ser, that is, assuming I wish to leave." Her eyes dropped again, tracing the shape of his shoulders, his arm, traveling down his waist, lower. "The Maker certainly called in some favors when he made you," she sighed.

He could feel his body reacting to her. He'd been without a woman for some time, since before his promotion in fact. He'd ended his arrangement with a very attractive young widow when she'd begun speaking of remarrying, which was not something he was prepared to give her.  Now that he had made a name for himself in this city he didn't dare visit the Rose, nor had he ever been particularly welcoming to the idea of paying for such services. Despite going without female company, he was certainly no maniac mad with lust. He was more than capable of denying himself the pleasures of the flesh. He was no animal. Though Hawke was trying her best to drive him to it.

"What you want, serah, is of no concern to me." He pointed to the door. "Get. Out."

"I've taken care of your lyrium smugglers." She stated, ignoring his order entirely and continuing the slow perusal of his form.

"I will pay you tomorrow." He moved forward, grabbed her arm and began pulling her towards the exit.

She halted him by speaking. "And I found your lieutenant." He looked down at her as she continued. "A name I'd be willing to part with. For a price." Her eyes were half lidded and her mouth twisted in a seductive smirk.

The wench.

He clenched his jaw. "I am unwilling to negotiate, Serah, but I am willing to toss you over my shoulder and remove you myself." He threatened.

"You haven't even heard what I want, Ser Cullen," she pouted.

He knew very well what she wanted. To get under his skin, to drive him to madness; she was not without some success. "Nor do I care to." He ground out.

Her pout lasted for the space of a heartbeat, "Come now, I simply want to hear a tale." She took a step forward until there were only inches between them; he fought to keep his body from leaning towards hers, to keep himself from noticing that she smelled of leather and sin.  She looked up to meet his eyes, which made him wonder what it might be like to have her on her knees.

"Just one tale. I promise to return the favor, if you'd like." Her teeth bit into the flesh of her lower lip.

He couldn't quite bring himself to back away from her, but he did release her arm. His blood was hot and settling heavily in his groin. Damn the woman, but he enjoyed this tension between them. The way she pushed, challenged, and brought him to the edge of his control.

She liked to test him - and he was coming to realize he enjoyed being tested.

And damn him if he didn't want to fuck her mouth right now.

Despite his better judgment he asked, "What sort of tale did you wish to hear, Hawke?" His voice was rough to his own ears.

"Let's see," she said, openly admiring the bare expanse of chest. Her hand snaked between them and she ran a finger across the skin just below his collar bone, tracing one of the many scars which laced his body. "I want to hear how you got this." Her breath ghosted across his skin, causing a second surge heat of heat to rush to his groin.

He kept his voice as neutral as he could. "I received that while traveling from Denerim to Amaranthine shortly after the blight." She was continuing to trace it absently while he spoke, doing her best to distract him. It was working, the pressure in his groin building with each gentle brush of her finger, "We were set upon by darkspawn in the night. I was unarmored. It has a sister on my leg."

Her hand moved searching out its next target. He nearly hissed when her nail lightly scraped across his nipple. Her fingers were cool and clever as they danced across his skin, finally settling on a thick white ridge on his ribs. "And this?"

His cock throbbed, pressing against his breeches, as if trying to make its presence known to her. But his voice, though thick, never wavered, "A training accident, before I took my vows. A blunted axe was not as dull as it should have been."

She proved her boldness further by allowing her fingers to continue their journey, circling a spot just next to his hipbone. "And this," she whispered. He glanced down where she touched him. The very tip of his cock, distended, purple and beaded with moisture, was just visible though the top of his waistband. He watched as her fingers dipped lower, closer-

He reached down and gripped her wrist and was rewarded with a light gasp of pain when he wrenched her arm behind her back. "You asked for one tale, Hawke, I gave you two," he rumbled down at her.

Her breathing had grown heavy, her eyes bright in her face. "Forgive me ser, my curiosity knows no bounds."

He very nearly laughed at that, "I think you're simply greedy, wench."

"Not true. I can be extremely giving, ser," she said breathlessly, "let me show you." Her tongue slipped out to moisten her bottom lip. He stared at her mouth hard; he needed only to lower his a few inches and he would be able to taste her. He needed only to suggest that he was willing ...

_Andraste give me strength._

He released her arm and stepped back from her. "Your information?" he demanded.

She held his gaze for a moment before sighing and pulling a piece of paper from one of her pockets. She handed it to him, "This should tell you all you need to know." He took the paper and glanced at it briefly before raising his eyes to her once again.

She took a step forward, her smile no less wicked than it had been a moment before, "And my reward?"

"Will be ready for you tomorrow," he stated as coolly as he could manage. "You know where to find me."

"A pity." She looked him over slowly before sighing, "It has been a pleasure seeing you, Ser Cullen." She turned and headed towards the door, calling over her shoulder. She paused at the threshold and looked back, allowing her eyes to linger on his arousal and added, "If you need some help with your bath, however, or would simply like some company..."

"Good night, Hawke."

With a final sigh she opened the door and slipped into the night.

"Damned woman." He muttered to himself before reaching down to palm his aching cock.


	6. Chapter 6

**Cullen**

As it turned out Hawke did not return the following day for her payment, but sent a messenger in her stead. Though he did not know her reasons for doing so he found himself annoyed by her absence. He'd been prepared to see her and offer a cutting remark, treat her with cool detachment, and reprimand her again for her trespass, but the opportunity did not present itself that day or the weeks that followed. After a time he felt a frustrating and confusing thread of concern begin to weave its way into his thoughts.

He needn't have worried, of course.

He attended Chantry services whenever his schedule allowed, and occasionally went there on his own time as well. The chapel in the gallows, though serving the same purpose, was not the same as the chantry itself. The smell of wax and incense, the softly spoken words of the chant, sisters and brothers quietly moving about, these things had been a comfort to him over the years. He'd been all but raised within the Chantry's confines, after all. To him it was a place to contemplate life's challenges, a haven when he was troubled.

It was just such an evening when he saw her there. She did have a habit of showing up unexpectedly.

She was sitting in a pew, speaking softly to one of the brothers. He hadn't recognized her at first; he'd only seen the back of her head and her hair wasn't in its usual messy bun, but pulled up neatly in an elegant twist. It was her laugh which alerted him to her presence. Soft as it was he had no trouble placing the sound and turned to catch her profile. He'd never seen her like this, without arms or armor; a guileless expression on her face as she spoke with the brother, eyes not dancing with mischief or trouble for once.

His breath caught when she rose, and he took in her appearance fully. She was wearing a simple but lovely gown; well-made and well-tailored, complimenting her slender form and making her look every inch the lady. The brother brought her hand to his lips, lingering a bit longer than a chaste man should, and bid her farewell.

She turned away from him, a small smile on her lips which fell the moment she locked eyes with Cullen's where he sat. She froze for a second before moving in his direction, he rose when she approached.

"Serah Hawke," he began, with and inclination of his head in her direction, "I've not seen you at the Gallows these past weeks."

She smiled, but it was not her usual sort of smile, it was neither mocking nor seductive. "Ser Cullen," she acknowledged without artifice. "I've had matters to attend to in other parts of the city." She paused for a moment, looking at him with a serious expression, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as though trying to decide upon something. "Though I had in fact meant to stop by, I've come across something which might interest you."

"More smugglers to contend with?" he asked, though he did not think it was the case. Though he could scare believe it she seemed somehow uncertain, perhaps even a little nervous.

"No, nothing of the sort." She shook her head and seemed to consider her words before speaking, "Actually... if you've no pressing matters here I was about to head home. It's not far, if you'd come with me I could show you what I've found."

He raised a brow in question which caused her to smile and whisper in a more playful tone, "No worries, ser, I do not intend to get you alone and have my filthy way with you. Your virtue is safe with me." She gave him a slight bow and an impish grin.

He couldn't quite stop the smile from encroaching on his face. "Very well, serah," he replied, allowing his curiosity to get the best of him. He stood, and offered his arm to her, uncertain as to why he would. Perhaps it was the gown. It must have been the gown. But she smiled, adjusted her shawl and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow allowing him to escort her from the Chantry.

The evening was rather warm and pleasant, the traffic in the streets just beginning to thin. He glanced down at her. She looked demure, lady like, so unlike the dangerous and vexing rogue he'd come to see her as. She certainly didn't seem the sort of female who would sneak into a man's quarters in the middle of the night, far from it, in fact. In fact, she appeared much more the sort of female he was accustomed to dealing with.

He filled the silence with a question. "Do you often find yourself at the Chantry?"

She looked up, "On occasion. I've been helping a brother with some personal matters." She shrugged and offered him a small smile, "and yes, even I go simply for the peace sometimes, wicked as I am. It is a good place to consider the trials life sends our way."

He was surprised by her candor, "It seems we may actually have something in common then."

She smiled again, "Perhaps we do."

When they found themselves at her door he nearly stopped before entering. The act of entering her home feeling somehow intimate, personal, though she certainly didn't have such qualms. The feeling passed quickly as he was genuinely interested as to what he would find within. He followed her through the door, shutting it quietly behind them. The estate was not as large as some, but well appointed. A mabari burst into the entry hall and circled them happily; she scratched his ears while crooning at him to be quiet. While all attention was focused on the animal a voice drew their eyes to the main room.

"Marian, you've returned. How was Sebastian?" A woman stood in the doorway; she froze when she saw him, her voice becoming suspicious. "And ... who is this?"

"Mother," Hawke answered, "Sebastian is well. This is Knight-Captain Cullen. I believe I've mentioned him before? Ser Cullen, my mother, Leandra Hawke."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, mistress Hawke," he said with a bow.

The woman regarded him stiffly before saying the proper words in return. She glanced at Hawke, her eyes holding a question.

"No worries mother," She placed her hand reassuringly on the older woman's arm and said softly. "I've some information I needed to share with the Captain, nothing more."

Her mother eyed him skeptically but did excuse herself just the same, saying that she'd be in her room if she was needed.

Hawke cleared her throat. "My mother... she doesn't like Templars."

"It seems to run in the family, then." He said sarcastically, wanting to kick himself for it the moment the words left his mouth.

"So it seems." Her brow furrowed for a moment before adding. "My father was an apostate; certainly you can understand her reservation. We spent a great deal of our lives hiding."

It certainly went a long way to explaining her own dislike of the order. "I was not aware of that."

She nodded and led him into her study, motioning towards two chairs near the hearth. "Please, make yourself comfortable while I find what I wanted to show you." He took a seat before the fire and watched as she began rummaging through a trunk, trying to ignore the way her arse was so beautifully displayed in the gown.

He tore his eyes from the sight and instead looked about her study. It was a comfortable room, well furnished with a cheery fire burning in the grate. The fire was not necessary but its warmth and light were still welcome. She had quite an extensive library, he noticed, which surprised him some, and several weapons on display, which did not. Her desk was a mess of correspondence and ledgers, though he hadn't really expected anything else. Organization is the antithesis of chaos after all.

"Ah, here we are." The sound of her voice brought his attention back to her. She approached; carrying a large book with the chantry seal embossed on its cover, and took the chair next to his. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders and he saw a large scar across the right side of her chest. He considered asking her about it, but thought better of it, thinking that she might not appreciate the reminder of their last interaction.

He watched her curiously as she searched through the pages for something, speaking as she did so. "I found this in a trunk of stolen goods. I hadn't thought much of it at first, it's just a register, but then I began looking more closely and was rather surprised what I found." Her finger trailed the columns, brows furrowed until she found what she was looking for.

She stood and handed him the book, looking over his shoulder and pointing out a line for him to read.

_Cullen - born 8:99 Blessed, 19 Solace- Kinloch Hold - Male infant - granted as ward to the Chantry of Redcliff - born to Elyse Ardoran, apprentice (unharrowed) age 17. Father - Templar (name withheld)._

He read the line over and over again in the space of several heartbeats. He'd long since given up any thoughts as to his parentage, having assumed it was a mystery he'd never unravel. He thought that, like many, he'd simply been left at the chantry and no names or dates would ever be known to him. He was surprised by the questions which immediately began spinning through his mind. His mother, a mage, a young one at that, and his father a Templar. He hadn't known. Hadn't even thought...

He looked up at her, "Hawke, I-" he began; unable to form the right words and feeling like the stuttering young fool he had been half a lifetime ago.

She spoke over his discomfort. "I know it says little, it may not even be you-"

"It is," he cut her off. "It... it has to be. I was raised in Redcliff, and the age is correct." He paused, reading the words once again before turning towards her. "It is more than I ever thought to know." He shook his head in disbelief, "I never even knew my name day, let alone who my mother was." Feeling suddenly overcome, he raised his eyes to meet hers again and said with all sincerity, "I cannot thank you enough for sharing this with me."

She smiled at him warmly, genuinely, "I'm glad I could. You can keep the book. The chantry probably would like it back but I have a feeling it matters less to them than it does to you."

He stood suddenly and clasped her hand, pulling her to her feet before making a bow to her and pressing his lips to her knuckles. "You've done me a great service, Hawke. I am in your debt."

"Be careful what you say, ser, one of these days I might just come to collect." She said lightly, a teasing lilt in her voice.

He smiled at her playfulness, so unlike the suggestive forwardness she normally plied him with. He was unable to resist responding, "I do not doubt that you will, serah, and I look forward to it."

She laughed softly, "As do I, Knight-Captain."

She had escorted him to her door, with no innuendo or inappropriate behavior, every bit the lady of the manor, and so unlike Hawke as he knew her. He could hardly believe she could be the same woman who had challenged him for years. He was as surprised by the changes he saw in her as he was by the gift.  Perhaps even more so.

He reluctantly bid her good evening and they parted ways.

As he made his way to the Gallows he considered all he'd learned, both of himself and of Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all those who left kudos and comments - thank you very very much! I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Hawke**

Hawke leaned up against the door after it closed with a soft click behind Cullen's retreating form.

His gratitude had been heartfelt, she could tell. Hawke, who had never been quite as shallow as she acted, was glad to have been of assistance. She'd found the register some time ago but hadn't given it much thought. Until one evening, a week or so before, when she found herself thumbing through it, noticing the name "Cullen" written in neat letters.

Though it could have been coincidence, she felt certain it was not. She had even considered looking into the information herself, to see if she could find out any more than what was given. She reconsidered, however, certain he would not appreciate her prying. If anything the book might provide a peace offering of sorts, an apology even. Given her behavior an offering of the sort would not be unwarranted. In the end she decided that she would bring the matter to his attention.

That is if she ever dared show her face to him again.

For the past several weeks she'd been avoiding the Gallows whenever possible, only going when it could not be avoided, and then doing her best to remain unseen by distinctive pair of handsome hazel eyes. She woke the morning after her trespass with the mother of all hangovers and no small amount of shame. Though Hawke was given to following impulse she truly wasn't stupid, but sneaking into the Gallows that evening certainly had been just that. Stupid. More than that, it had been dangerous. What if someone had seen her? What if someone had sent a smite her way? Though she had yet to experience such a thing first hand, she knew that if such a thing were to occur she'd have no way of hiding what exactly she was.

She had been far too bold, dangerously so, and her behavior towards him had been nothing short of wanton. _That_ had not been harmless flirting. _Maker,_ she had thought, _what he must think of me_. Certainly less than what she had thought of him, recalling his appearance. Cullen was a remarkably fit man, and the sight of his broad chest, his narrow waist, the dusting of golden hair, had infused her body with a desire she'd never known before. The obvious was his body reacted to her had nearly been her undoing; not to mention his restraint was no less fit than his form.

She wasn't certain which drew her more fiercely.

And she had utterly humiliated herself before him. If the man hadn't thought her a slattern before, he certainly did so after that night. She couldn't even think about showing her face to him.

And so, like a coward, she hid.

She wasn't certain why she had been surprised to find him in the Chantry this evening. She had seen him there before. He was a templar, after all, with all his vows and rhetoric and chantry guilt. She knew him to be a devout Andrastian. Yet still, when she laid eyes on him she'd frozen for a moment, caught in her own embarrassment.

She had gone there this evening because Sebastian had sent her a note, asking her if she would be willing to stop by to discuss the situation in Starkhaven. Her mother had found out and insisted she take the time to look like a woman for once, despite Hawke's insistence that the Prince was not interested in anything more than her council. But she'd complied with her wishes, allowing her mother to dress her up like the daughter she wanted rather than the one she had and forwent her familiar, and much more comfortable leathers.

When Hawke had seen her reflection in the mirror she very nearly changed her mind. She rather felt like some imposter, a mercenary trying to play the part of a lady. Yet even she had to admit that the corset did do a fine job of making her look like she might have breasts, small as they were, and her waist appeared impossibly slender. But her body was angular, muscled, and not feminine and soft.  While the clothing may have fit her body, it did not fit anything else.  Though she had to admit that her hair was nice, not being held together with three pins and a prayer for a change, still, the rest felt much like a poorly made costume.

Answering Sebastian's missive was not the only reason she made the walk. She'd also gone in order to seek some answers of her own, or at least some peace of mind. Sebastian had always been willing to listen and offer his own counsel when needed, and only the Maker knew how badly such counsel was needed.

She and Carver had been at odds with more frequency than ever been before. They had always had a strained relationship, but as of late it had become something brittle and cold. No matter how she tried she couldn't ever seem to lighten their talks or convince him she wanted only the best for him. Since Father passed he'd begrudged her the position as head of the family, and though he followed he did not do so quietly. Since Bethany had died their relationship fractured further, as he followed their mothers example and placed the blame at her feet. And since the deep roads, when she'd left him behind, he no longer bothered to conceal his resentment. She had tried to include him in the decisions, tried to give him more responsibility, some direction, but he balked at it, claiming he didn't need her pity.

This morning they'd had such a row, though perhaps more bitter and angry than was typical; and he'd left, cursing her and slamming the door behind him. Hawke was left to wonder what she would do with a brother who needed guidance but was too stubborn to take it, at least from the sister he seemed to despise. Mother, of course, had been no help, she rarely was in such circumstances. And so, she had gone to the Chantry, to help Sebastian and prey on his good nature, hoping he'd have some advice for her in return.

When she'd seen Ser Cullen, she was not certain what she should do. He had to have known she was avoiding him, and she was humiliated not only by her actions, but her cowardice as well. She didn't know if it was the setting, or her conversation with Sebastian, or even if it was the damned silly gown; but when she approached him she felt no need to taunt or provoke him.

Maker knew the man deserved a break from her teasing.

She was surprised to find his company pleasant, even charming. His reaction to the register had been genuinely appreciative and made her genuinely glad in return. His expression was heartwarming, and his gratitude had nearly made her blush.

For a Templar, she supposed, he really wasn't a bad sort.


	8. Chapter 8

**Cullen**

He should have known that peace between them would never last.

"Knight-Captain, I'd like a word if you have a moment."

Cullen turned at the sound of the familiar but not immediately recognizable voice. Hawke's younger brother approached, for a second he felt a touch of worry that something had happened to her, but shook the idea off.

"It is not often I see you outside of the company of your sister, is something amiss?"

The look which crossed the younger man's face added to his suspicion that there was a serious rivalry between the two. When the boy spoke his words confirmed it. "I'm not always in my sister's shadow, ser." He had none of his sister's subtly, either.

"Of course not," he said with a patience he didn't feel. "What can I help you with," he jogged his memory for a name, "Carver, isn't it?"

"At your service, ser." The boy looked around the courtyard briefly before he spoke again. "I'm interested in joining the order."

 _Maker help me,_ he thought, _a Hawke within the ranks_.

"This is the first I've heard of any such calling. What brought you to this decision?"

"It is something I have been considering for some time," his statement came with less conviction than Cullen would have liked in any potential recruit.

"And what does your sister say regarding your calling?" _Nothing good, I'm certain._

"My _sister_ is unaware of my desires." The boy couldn't have disguised his resentment of her if he tried.

This would be a disaster.

If Hawke's brother joined there would be a price to pay, and Cullen feared he would be the one to pay it. "I suggest you mention it to her before you make any decisions," he said, caring not that the boy was becoming flushed with anger.

"She would not understand," Carver said firmly, "I intend to forge my own path, with or without her approval."

Ah, so he resented her to the point that he wanted out from under her thumb entirely.

Cullen clasped his hands behind his back and regarded the younger Hawke. "And so you came to me for a recommendation?"

"I was hoping, Ser, since we have worked together in the past."

 _No, we have not,_ he thought, _my dealings have been with your sister._

The younger Hawke was tall, young, fit and determined. He must have some skill with a sword else his sister would likely not allow him to follow her around. There was nothing about him which outwardly indicated that he wouldn't be a perfectly suitable Templar.

_Unfortunately._

He could not turn him away, but neither did he have to help him. "I'm afraid I cannot grant you my recommendation." The boys eyes hardened, finally giving him some resemblance to his sibling. "I have little to do with the recruitment process," he finished. That much was true; however, if he applied it's likely he would be welcomed. Few recruits were turned away these day, Meredith was forever increasing the Templars presence in the city. He could only hope that the recruitment didn't go well, that they found something in Carver which was unfit for duty. But he had a sinking feeling that wouldn't be the case.

_Unfortunately._

Carver was obviously disgruntled he wouldn't be pushed to the front of the line, but thanked him for his time and left.

Cullen sighed and felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.

_This was going to be a disaster._

It was later that same day that he found himself outside of the Knight-Commanders office. He'd contemplated whether or not to bring his concern to her for several hours before finally coming to his decision. He knocked on her door before entering.

"Knight-Captain," she said, not getting up from her desk or the stack of papers before her. "What brings you here this day?"

"I was hoping that you had a few moments to discuss something," he glanced to her tranquil assistant who was sitting quietly in the corner, but offered no greeting as none was needed.

"Of course, have a seat." Meredith indicated the chair before her desk.

He did not bother with small talk before getting to business, the Knight-Commander had never been a fan of such frivolities. "I was approached today by a young man interested in joining the order." She looked at him without comment and so he continued. "Though the young man in question may have some potential, it's his reasons for joining that I take issue with. His recruitment could be problematic due to his family."

"And who is this man?" she asked.

"Carver Hawke, brother to Marian Hawke."

She raised a brow, "And you disapprove?"

"I question his actual desire to become a Templar. I believe he is doing this for no other reason than to anger his sister. It is known that there is a rivalry between the two, and I do not believe that he has any true calling.  We've plenty of recruits who do not come with potentially problematic ties."

Meredith shuffled some papers on her desk but continued speaking, "Is that your true reason for not wanting him within the ranks? Or is it the fact that his sister is so opposed to the order?"

"Both, actually. Though Hawke has made no secret that she opposes the order, she has been of great help to us in the past. She has influence in the city, and making an enemy of her would be unwise."

She did not appear convinced, so he continued, "I also find it difficult to accept a recruit who's decisions might be based in spite rather than an actual calling, if it proves to be the case, which I believe it is."

Meredith considered this for a moment before speaking. "Should this Carver Hawke apply for recruitment he will not be turned away." She added, quite forcefully, "for _any_ reason."

_Void take you Cullen, you should have kept your mouth shut._

"Why, if I may ask, Commander?"

She straightened herself as she addressed him, "Hawke is becoming far too influential throughout the city. She is overreaching and has long overextended her stay in Kirkwall. Having her brother under our thumb could prove beneficial, as it may go far to quieting her dissent. At worst, we'll have leverage against her should it prove necessary."

Maker, how to salvage this mess he just created. An idea formed, "What if it proves that he is not, in fact, working against his sister, but for her?"

Meredith was unmoved and shrugged, "Then we transfer him. If he wants to become a Templar let him enter training. He will be watched, I will see to it myself. If what you are suggesting proves to be true there are no end places we could send him."

He did not like it, not in the least. But there was nothing to be done for it, not now that he had spoken out against it. He groaned inwardly, he had made a bad situation worse. He could not go against the Commander's wishes, and given the hard gaze she had leveled on him now she would tolerate no argument on the matter.

He inclined his head, "Of course, Commander. I simply wished to bring the matter to your attention. I trust your judgment in it."

She nodded once, "If that will be all, Captain?"

He knew when he was dismissed, "That is all, Commander. Good day."

When he left her office he ran a hand through his hair, the headache he had predicted earlier was fully realized.

Once again he thought to himself, _this will be a disaster._


	9. Chapter 9

**Meredith**

Meredith Stannard, Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, was a hard woman. She'd been a member of the order for thirty-four years. Her rise through the ranks, which unlike the Chantry had always favored men in positions of leadership, was nearly unheard of. But such obstacles were nothing to her. She was a woman of great determination, strength and faith. The Maker had tried her, had tested her, and she'd proven herself true.

If only trust was more easily earned.

She pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers when Cullen exited her office.

She'd struggled with her decision to promote him, prayed over it, had very nearly gone to the Revered Mother with it, that old fool, before she'd finally reached her decision.

Ser Cullen was everything a Templar should be, or very nearly, she thought. He was a dedicated man of faith, a strong leader with a firm hand, and most importantly, he was no fool. His experiences in Ferelden had opened his eyes to the dangers which can lie behind a pretty face. He was hard on his men, pushing them harder than many of them had been pushed before, and he got results. He was intelligent, well-educated and had a remarkable head for politics. He would make an outstanding Knight-Commander someday.

But still, she had nearly reconsidered her desire to promote him no fewer than a dozen times. But the fault lay not with him, but with her.

In times of weakness, brief moments when she was no longer Knight-Commander and simply Meredith, she had thought of him. Maker help her, she'd thought of him in the most sinful manner. There was something about him which made her regret all of those long lonely nights, knee's sore from prayer rather than wrapped snugly around a lover. Regret those years of having to carry her burdens alone.

She did not allow her thoughts to linger on such things; such trivial wants did not matter, not truly. She'd had a legacy she could be proud of. But when she had considered who she was going to appoint second in command, and she could only think of one Knight in particular, she had paused to consider her reasoning, for the simple matter that she found him attractive in both body and spirit and feared she might be promoting him without merit. She'd nearly passed him over in a less qualified knight, but had regained her sense and appointed him regardless of her desires.

She did not regret her decision.  However, though she trusted him well, it was not enough. There was too much at stake. Matters were escalating within the circle, within the entire city. The Qunari were becoming increasingly problematic, tensions within the circle were at an all-time high, and trust in the order was at an all-time low. The Viscount had proved himself useless, as had that old fool in the chantry, and throughout the city a name on the lips of half the citizenry was one which had caused her no end of irritation.

_Hawke._

She remembered the first time she'd heard that name. Ser Cullen had made the report in person, crediting this Ferelden refugee for assisting him in unfolding a plot to plant possessed recruits within the ranks. Had it been successful it could have meant the end of Meredith's career. She wondered if Hawke knew it, that she had inadvertently made certain that Meredith retained her position.

She'd never met the other woman, though she'd seen her, time and time again, from a distance. Heard of her exploits as well, some of which were the stuff of stories already. She'd gone from living in squalor in Lowtown to restoring her family's estate in Hightown in less than two years. She'd helped to clean up some of the more organized gangs of thugs in the city, somehow found favor with the Viscount, and now had the Guard Captain in her pocket.

In truth, Meredith admired her for her ambition and resourcefulness, but that was where her admiration ended. Hawke was a known mage sympathizer who did not hide her dislike of the circle and the order, and had no issue with vocalizing her opinions. She'd seen Hawke at the Gallows, though they'd had yet to be introduced, seen her sniffing around Ser Cullen like a bitch in heat. Of late, she'd even heard rumors that the two were _more_ than acquaintances. The idea disturbed her.

Cullen's focus should be on his duty, not on some Ferelden whore come to turn the city inside out. She feared that Hawke would cause him to lose sight of what truly mattered - or worse. 

_Well, let her brother seek a position within the ranks,_ she thought. _It was past time the Ferelden bitch was put on a leash._


	10. Chapter 10

**Cullen:**

It was nearly a fortnight later when he finally saw her again, and as predicted her anger was visible from halfway across the courtyard. It was not unexpected, a visit on this day. Carver had been officially instated as a recruit the day before and he expected nothing less of her. He saw her storming across the Gallow's Courtyard, determination in every stride and steel in her eyes.

"Ser Cullen! A word with you!" She growled when she was perhaps ten paces off. He waited until she stood directly in front of him before speaking.

"I suppose we both know why you are here, serah," he stated calmly.

"I suppose we do, _ser_ ," she hissed.

He stared down into those cold eyes of hers. She thought this was his doing, of that there was no doubt. The accusation he found there angered him. They had formed a sort of truce after their last encounter, he was a fool to think it would ever last. Still, the expression on her face rankled him to the point that part of him wanted to taunt her, make her think that the entire thing was his doing; to test _her_ composure for a change. He resisted this temptation, however. Such games were for children.

After length he spoke, "Your brother came to me for a recommendation into the order."

"And did you give him one?" She ground out.

"No," he answered honestly.

She raised a brow at his statement, clearly unconvinced, "and yet the fact remains that he is a Templar recruit. I can't help but consider where the fault might lie."

"A recruit he may be, but without _my_ aid," her said, perhaps more harshly than he intended.

"But neither did you turn him away." She accused.

 _"Knight-Captain!"_ He glanced up and saw a messenger fast approaching. Cullen had been waiting for news regarding a deployment of knights who had failed to return a week prior, and had a feeling the messenger was bringing him just that. He held out a hand to halt the page and continued speaking.

"Hawke, truth be told, I had nothing to do with this. Carver made it clear that this is what he desires, and I suggested he speak with you before making any decisions." He kept his voice calm and well-modulated, "Your brother applied and was recruited, with no doing from me. Perhaps you should take this up with him?"

A muscle in her jaw ticked, she looked away and muttered. " _Ser_ Carver won't deign to grant me audience."

"A pity," he glanced over at the messenger whose expression clearly stated his information could not wait. "Is there anything else you needed? Or may I continue about my day?"

The glare she sent him was icy. "We are not finished, Templar."

He sighed, "We never are, Hawke."

 

 

**Hawke:**

Hawke paced the length of Varric's suite at the Hanged Man, muttering curses to herself and occasionally sparing some words for Varric and Aveline.

"Hawke," Aveline offered from where she sat, "perhaps this will be good for him. Carver could do with some discipline."

"But a Templar Aveline? You wouldn't even have him in the guard!" Hawke cried.

"He'll have more supervision in the order than he would in the guard. It will be years before he's considered for an actual knighthood," Aveline said calmly.

Hawke sighed and rubbed her head.

"I have to agree with Aveline, Hawke," Varric added. "This might be good for junior."

"Tell that to mother. Apparently his joining is somehow my fault even though I didn't find out until she did," Hawke groaned.

"Well..." hedged Aveline. Hawke shot her a glare,

"Well what?"

The other woman shrugged, "He probably did join it just to spite you. You know better than anyone what a tit he can be."

Hawke had thought exactly the same thing, but didn't voice her opinion. Mother was right; it was her fault, though Maker knew she had tried to repair their relationship. How she missed Bethany at times like this. Her little sister always managed to mend things between them. She sat down at the table with a sigh and filled a tankard with the pitcher of warm ale from the table. "The bloody Knight-Captain could have at least informed me that Carver had gone to him about it," she muttered into her ale.

Varric snorted at that.

"What?" Hawke snapped.

"Hawke, did you really think that he would go to you with anything at this point? You've admitted you do your best to irritate the man. Besides, I highly doubt he encouraged Carver to join. Or even wanted him to. The man had to realize the backlash he'd have to endure."

Varric, of course, was correct.

She groaned, "I know. I just feel like I lost my brother. We may not have been on the best of terms, but he's still my little brother." She lowered her head into her hands and muttered, more to herself, "I wish he would have come to me first."

She felt Varrics hand briefly land on her shoulder, "It could be worse you know. He could have, I don't know, locked us up in a chamber in the deep roads and left us for dead."

She felt a corner of her mouth pull up, "I suppose you're right."

He sat back, satisfied, "I usually am."


	11. Chapter 11

**HAWKE:**

Some weeks later, though not fully over the pain of Carver's defection, Hawke continued on as she always did. Oh, she was still angry for certain, angry at her brother, herself and even a certain Templar despite Varric's words and her knowledge that he was not at fault. But there was always something or someone who needed her assistance in Kirkwall, it seemed, and she couldn't sit home and sulk when she had things to do. Besides, it gave her a reason to excise her own demons, working her anger out with blade and blood.

Well, at least, some of it.

"That was disappointedly easy," she muttered more to herself than her companions as the last of the bodies fell to the ground.

"Doesn't sound like you'll find much more excitement at the docks, either," said Isabella.

"No," Hawke replied, "it appears we're a bit late to the party." She turned and motioned to her friends to follow. "But, we might as well have a look now rather than waiting until later. With luck one or two will still be there and we can question them; or at the very least find some clue as to where they might have moved on to."

As she exited the alley she spotted Templar immediately. She made a discreet but familiar motion behind her back, hoping Anders was able to catch the signal before he came bounding out of the alley they had just vacated. Knowing Anders as she did he'd likely come out with some quip about why mages ought to be feared. It really was no wonder he used to get caught so often with his habit of talking first and thinking later.

She exhaled a sigh of relief moments later when only Isabela and Fenris came to stand beside her.

It only took that brief moment to realize the Templar in question was Cullen. She felt her stomach plummet. She'd been avoiding him, the Gallows and all things Templar since Carver's enlistment in an attempt to keep herself from taking her anger out on him unjustly. Her temper, along with her impulsive nature, never did complement each other.

She smiled tightly in an attempt to hide her discomfort. "Ser Cullen, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Hawke," he said coolly. "I was alerted to an incident in this part of town. I should have expected to find you in the middle of it."

" _This_ is the Knight-Captain?" Isabela asked with a purr. "Oh, _Hawke,_ I get it. He's scrumptious."

She didn't miss the way Cullen's eyes flickered over Isabela for just a heartbeat before returning to hers, narrowing on her face. "I distinctly felt the pull of magic from that alley as well," he posed the question as a statement and folded his arms over his chest, waiting.

Isabela piped up from beside her once again, "And that would be the stick-up-the-ass-prig part you've mentioned."

Hawke ignored Isabela and kept her eyes on Cullen, who in turn frowned at the pirate before returning his gaze back to her, waiting for her answer. In response to his statement she shrugged and hooked her thumb over her shoulder, simply saying, "Apostate." It wasn't far from the truth, though the apostate in question was hopefully long gone and making his way to Darktown. Well, the other apostate that is. But Hawke, in typical Hawke fashion, had not bothered to use her other talents with that particular band of lowlifes.

He didn't quite buy it, she could see, and his words confirmed it. "Show me," he said and moved towards the alley without waiting.

With a sigh she followed. She was relieved to see that the only bodies in the narrow passage were the corpses they'd left behind; Anders must have made good on his escape. Six bodies lay on the ground, two gutted by Fenris' overly large sword, three with their throats neatly cut and a third who had fallen by... other means.

Cullen looked over the bodies and examining the sixth closely. "Which one was the apostate?" he asked, voice heavy with suspicion.

"Um..." she considered, "one of those I think," she vaguely motioned towards three men in a tangled pile.

He turned back to the charred corpse, "Odd that this one is covered with burns, isn't it?" He said, waiting for her response.

"The apostate didn't have terribly good aim," she said with a shrug and offered him what she hoped was a charming smile.

Of course, said smile had no effect, "And what else aren't you telling me?" He folded his arms across his chest again. She knew this stance, as she'd seen him take it before. He would not budge until he got some sort of answer from her.

With a sigh, as though telling him was costing her something she said, "These are not simple thieves."

He didn't speak or move, but waited for her to continue.

She felt her mouth tightened and continued, "I've taken an assignment to track down a group who is responsible for abducting young women and children, most notably from the alienage, but also from parts of Darktown and the docks as well." She said, before adding, "I believe that blood mages are involved."

His mouth was pulled into a grim line, "What makes you say that?"

Well, she certainly wasn't going to give him all her secrets. "Let's just say that I have my sources and leave it at that," she said and folded her own arms over her chest, mirroring his stance. He was not the only one present who could be stubborn as a mule.

His frown deepened. "And you didn't think to bring this to the attention of the Order?" He asked, clearly annoyed.

"No, _ser_ , I did not," she responded with just as much ice in her voice. "Last I knew you Templars were too busy repressing the mages already within the circle and making abductions of your own."

His eyes hardened further and a muscle clenched in his jaw, "Making a valid arrest is hardly comparable to abducting children for blood sacrifices," he said, his voice dangerously low.

"I suppose that depends on who you ask, ser," refusing to back down.

He took a step forward, "You _will_ tell me everything you know about these blood mages," he demanded, "and you will do so now or I will bring you to the Gallows myself."

Fenris moved towards him but she held out a hand to halt him and shook her head. "It's fine, Fenris. You and Isabela go tell the guard about the bodies piled up here. I think Donnic is on duty in Lowtown tonight, and you know how Aveline hates it when they come across our handiwork without notice."

Her companions moved to comply, but not before Fenris uttered a few more foreign curses. Isabela threw a wink over her shoulder and tossed back, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" before Fenris grabbed her arm and dragged her with him.

They stared each other down for several moments. "I will not be coming with you to suffer an interrogation," she said and turned her back to him, moving towards the docks. "But since you are here you might as well come with me," she called over her shoulder. "I have an address I need to check out in regards to the abductions."

She heard him move to follow and did not have to wait long for him to speak.

"Taking on a group of blood mages on your own is foolish at best."

"I wasn't alone," she said with a huff. "Fenris and Isabela were with me," _not to mention Anders_. "Besides, I believe I have more than proven myself capable enough to handle a few mages."

"Capable you may be, these situations should be left to the Templars. At the very least the guard should be informed," he insisted.

"The guard knows," she replied, adding with a frown, "Missing elves are apparently not their top priority." She shot him a glare, "and save the patronizing tone for your charges. It won't get you far with me."

"You have no idea how I treat my 'charges'," he ground out.

"No, but one hears stories, ser, and the mages in the Gallows' have not been having a pleasant go of it," she returned.

"So you paint us all with the same brush?" he asked angrily.

She paused in her step, considering. "That was unfair of me," she said turning to incline her head towards him in a gesture of apology. "I have not heard your name in conjunction with the abuse many of the mages have suffered, and honestly you don't seem the sort." That was in fact true. In all likelihood, given his position, he probably had little direct interaction with the mages themselves.

He responded with a nod, but she found his expression far too smug for her taste. She felt her lip pull back and added, "But neither do you seem to be doing much to stop such abuses from happening. Tell me, who protects the mages from the Templars, ser?"

His brow drew together sharply, and his face reddened in anger before he took a deep breath, in attempt, she thought, to calm himself down. When he spoke next her belief was confirmed when his voice had taken on its usual calm and controlled cadence, "Do you truly wish to have this conversation here and now, Hawke?" he asked, motioning to the darkened lane they found themselves in.

He was right, of course. She felt her shoulders drop. "No. That is for another time," she relented before turning on her heel and stalking towards their destination. She heard him sigh deeply before he moved to follow.

**CULLEN:**

He followed closely behind her as she weaved in an out of passages and alleyways without hesitation. She knew the way through Lowtown and the docks, but he had not realized how well. She moved silently and quickly, keeping to the shadows and staying well away from the areas of heavier traffic, taking shortcuts and detours he didn't knew existed. She suddenly paused in her step, peering around a corner, scanning the rooftops with her eyes. She muttered something under her breath he didn't quite catch.

"Pardon?" he asked quietly.

She pulled out her weapons and pointed down the way with her chin and spoke quietly, "This is an area known for ambushes. They jump down from the rooftops..."

"The rooftops?" he asked, incredulous that anyone would be so foolish.

She turned to face him and raised a brow, "I take it you've not had any such encounters?"

He certainly hadn't, "No, I have not."

"Hmmm," she hummed, before muttering sarcastically, "perhaps my armor is not shiny and pretentious enough to frighten them off."

He felt himself frown and could not resist responding, "Or perhaps a skinny female wandering around at night appears fair game."

She snorted, muttering, "You'd think my reputation would precede me, but it never seems to." She sheathed her weapons and slipped out of the shadows into the dock front before them, "Come along, it looks clear."

The moved along the waterfront, keeping close to the building and in the shadows, before ducking once again into a narrow row and stopping in front a door. The door itself was unremarkable, with no name, number or mark upon it, and looked much like several others they had passed.

"This is the place," she said.

"You're certain?" He asked.

She shot him a glare, "I'm not an amateur."

With no small amount of condescension in his voice he assured her, "Of _course_ not."

She shot him yet another look, eyes cold even in the dim light. He wasn't certain he liked her like this, professional, prickly, and obviously still angry at him for her brother's enlistment into the order. Though he should be grateful she was not sending him a slew of suggestive innuendos, he couldn't find it within himself to be so.

The door, expectedly, was locked. She pulled a roll of leather from her waistband and proceeded to sort through various wires and lockpicking tools. He was not certain why this surprised him, but it certainly did. He discreetly cleared his throat earning him another sharp look.

She placed a hand on her hip and bit out, "Would you prefer I knock, ser? Make sure anyone inside is armed and ready?"

He held up his hands and shook his head, "By all means, go about your usual business, serah. You _are_ the professional with this sort of thing."

She snorted again but proceeded. When she bent over to work the lock he did not fail to notice (once again) what a lovely arse she had. Heart shaped and taught above those impossibly long legs. He imagined the skin would be white, smooth, supple beneath his hands...

Her voice brought him back from his reverie and his head snapped up, grateful to see she hadn't turned around to find him leering at her like a degenerate.

"Once we're inside stay behind me," she instructed, "there will be traps and I don't need you stumbling into them."

"Naturally, I'll allow you to do so in my stead," he said sardonically. Even in the low light he could see her flush of irritation. She rolled up her picks before reaching for a dagger and slowly opening the door. She slipped inside, leaving the door open for him and motioned for him to be quiet.

He couldn't quite help the clank of his armor, of course.

She hissed in his ear, "If you can't move anymore quietly than that maybe you should just stay here and guard the exit. You sound like a drunk stumbling in the dark for bottle in all that metal."

Well, that certainly was not going to happen. She'd probably give him the slip and leave him waiting here like a bloody fool. Whatever she was looking for she didn't seem to want him to find. "Not a chance, Hawke."

She huffed, "That getup is impractical. Those absurd pauldrons alone probably weigh as much as your sword."

"They keep me fit," he returned.

"That they do," she mumbled with a twitch of her lips, her playful humor returning briefly. He felt his own twitch in return. But she frowned seconds later, continuing on with her insults, "I'll never understand the skirt. Are you here to oppress mages or dance a reel?"

"It's a robe not a skirt," he returned.

"It's _ridiculous_ ," she said, exaggerating the word.

He wanted to continue sparring with her but they were making more noise than his armor ever did. "Are we going to stand here and argue or take a look inside?"

Her brow furrowed and she turned away from him, "Just... try to keep the noise down."

She moved towards the main part of the building silently, and he did so as quietly as able. Twice she stopped him to disable traps she spotted. He was rather impressed she was able to do so in the dark, but he didn't let her know that. Maker knows her ego needed no help from him. No one appeared within and the building seemed devoid of both people and things, but there was a door leading away from the main part of the building, to an office or another storeroom he did not know. Moving towards the door she held up a hand suddenly to halt him several feet from the door.

"Stay," she whispered.

She slipped into the opening and he fought the urge to follow her.

**HAWKE:**

_Shit,_ she thought. _Shit, shit, shit._ The mage dragged the edge of a small knife across his palm and blood twisted and rose from the gash as he summoned a spell. She could dispel it easily, it was not a complicated thing, but not with Cullen nearby. It was a risk she simply could not take.

"Mage!" she yelled and attempted to back away, but not before tendril's of blood fueled energy twisted itself around her legs, twining up them, holding her in place. Cullen burst into the room and did not hesitate to send a smite at the mage, flattening him against the wall before bounding forward and slashing him open from neck to hip.

Hawke had only been brushed by his smite and had not taken the full force, but it had weakened her none the less. Her body felt heavy, drained, and when she was fully released from the bonds of magic she collapsed, hitting her head hard enough for stars to form before her eyes. She lay there gasping, nauseated and weakened, though whether it was from the smite or to blow to her head he wasn't certain, and reached up to touch her temple. Her hand came away red and wet. In seconds Cullen was kneeling beside her, a torn piece of cloth in his hand and pressing it against her wound.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She swatted his hands away, mumbling, "I will be." She nodded her head at the mage's corpse, "See if he has anything on him. I need to find out where they're moving the captives."

"It can wait," he stated firmly and resumed his attention to her wound. He scowled at her as he did so. After a few moments of silence he spoke, all but growling at her, "Hawke, if I had not been here that mage would have had you."

"Not necessarily. I would have had Fenris with me, and he is quite adept at dealing with mages," she said.

Predictably, he was not satisfied with her answer. "And what if he failed? This is why you should share such information with the Templars! This is what we train for!" His brows were tightly drawn and his eyes focused on her temple, but his anger was visible in the harsh tones of his voice.

"And this is what I DO!" she stated just as angrily, "This is not the first band of blood mages I have dealt, and it will certainly not be the last!"

He cut her off, "What if it _was_ the last? What if your friends didn't get to you in time? I have enough on my mind without worrying about you getting yourself killed!" His eyes flicked to hers for a moment, the surprise in them likely mirroring her own.

 _Well,_ she thought, _that's interesting._

He muttered a curse and stood up, turning his back to her.

A wide grin spread itself across her face. "Why, Knight-Captain, if I didn't know any better I would say you were concerned for my well being."

He ignored her and moved to rifle through the mages belongings. She watched him from where she sat, his profile showing a faint flush even in the dim light. His brow was drawn and his lips pulled into a grim line.

He _worried_ about her, she was surprised but this information, and more so by the fact his concern was not unwelcome. She pulled the cloth from her head, the blood had slowed enough, was only slightly seeping now. She was still somewhat dizzy, and a little nauseated, but her new-found knowledge that the Knight Captain cared at least whether she lived or died allowed her to push such discomfort aside.

After a few moments, he turned back to her, calm facade back in place and professional once again. "Nothing but a few coins, not even a scrap of paper."

"Damn," she muttered. This was a dead end then. "I was hoping I could put a stop to this before more elves and refugees are taken." She sighed, "I have no idea where they've moved to, or where they're keeping their captives."

"I will have my men look into it," he said with a curt nod.

She couldn't very well turn him down on the offer. Not that it was an offer, mind you, more of a statement, but she couldn't very well tell him not to when any additional help might protect someone else from being taken.

"If you learn anything can you not, at the very least, share your information with me?" she asked, "otherwise I'll have to stumble around in the dark for answers myself."

She could see him considering this, he didn't want to, she could tell, but he relented, "fine," he bit out the word like a curse.

She grinned up at him, and could not help teasing, "I promise to be careful, ser. I wouldn't want you to worry."

She could have sworn she heard he say "Blasted woman," before turning and heading towards the door.

She didn't bother to hold back her laugh.


	12. Chapter 12

**CULLEN** :

_Knight-Captain Cullen,_

_I was surprised to receive your letter of inquiry, and more so with the inquiry itself. It is well known that circle orphans are not allowed to know of their parentage, which makes me wonder how you came across such information. Though I am curious I will not ask how you came into this knowledge, but instead tell you what I can recall of the incident._

_I do, in fact, remember your mother. Elyse was several years younger than I was at the time. She was not originally from Ferelden, I believe her parents had moved here from the Anderfels, though I could be mistaken. I believe she was about ten when she was brought to the circle, and had not been surrendered by her parents, but taken by Templars instead. I a not aware of what became of her family.  
_

_By the time I knew her she was uncommonly fair, which made her difficult to forget. While we have pretty apprentices aplenty, she was a true jewel. Such beauty, unfortunately, is more often than not a detriment for a mage._

_There was a small scandal when it was discovered she was pregnant, much of that had to do with her age, she was only sixteen, if I recall correctly. She refused to name of the Templar father, and it is my belief that she did so out of fear rather than to protect his name. It was believed by most that the act was not consensual._

_I was not present for the birth, but our late Senior Enchanter Wynne was, given her gifts in healing. The birth itself was a typical affair, and your mother bore it well, the infant was healthy, as I recall, though we knew little outside of that. The child, you, that is, was removed from the circle within hours of birth and brought to the Chantry as is typical in these cases; it is unlikely Elyse was even given the opportunity to look upon her child._

_Although She recovered from the birth physically she changed afterwards, becoming quiet and withdrawn. Such behavior changes are not uncommon after such events; it is, in fact, expected. A mother will more often than not mourn the loss of her child, regardless of the circumstances of its conception._

_Approximately one year after the birth she underwent her harrowing, and I regret to inform you that she did not survive. Many mourned her passing, she was a lovely woman with a sweet disposition prior to her pregnancy, and it was hoped that after time she would return to her former self. It is tragic that she did not have the opportunity._

_That is all I can recall of her. I wish I could offer you something more, but this old mind has so many memories that it is difficult to sometimes keep track._

_It might relieve you to know that, while ghosts still seem to haunt the halls of Kinloch Hold from time to time, the tower is returning to something of its former self. The halls have been cleaned, cleansed and repaired, and our numbers are growing once again. Before I pass it is my wish to see it fully restored and be done with such foul memories and sad reminders of Uldred's depravity._

_I hope that you are working to create a haven of safety and learning within the Kirkwall circle. News is rare these days, and when it can be found it is unfortunately more bleak than not. It is rumored that the Gallows has once again become a prison in truth, and that the mages live in a state of oppression and fear. I pray that what I have heard is wrong. While the situation which forced you from Kinloch to Kirkwall was unfortunate, I hope you remember that even under the worst of circumstances not all of us turned against you._

_With regards,_

_First Enchanter Irving_

_Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi_

Cullen put the letter down and cradled his head in his hands. It was as he had feared. No, in the cold light of day, it was worse. The register given to him by Hawke had turned out to be less of a boon than he had originally thought. He had hoped that somehow that he was the product of two willing bodies, a Templar and mage mistakenly given into their urges. But no, he was the product of force, of rape, if Irving's recollection was true, and he had no reason to doubt it.

_Rape._

In his mind the word burned, he screwed his eyes shut against the echo of it.

He had never been one to allow his power over the mages corrupt him, to use it for his own gain or to feed some perverse desire. But neither was he blind to the fact that some within the order were less dedicated, less controlled, and certainly less honorable than he. Templar's who used their power in such a way were reprimanded harshly, if caught. But how many were not caught? How many mages kept their mouths sealed out of fear? How many accusations have gone unheeded over the years?

He picked up the letter again, glancing over the words once more, before crumpling it and tossing it into a corner. He rubbed his now aching head and muttered a curse.

If his mother were alive, what would she think of a son turned Templar? Would she be proud that, unlike some, he was a man of self-control and dedication? One who would not use his power over mages for his own ends? Or would she see him only for his role; arresting apostates, killing them even and...

... and as Hawke had accused, not doing enough to protect the mages within the circle from Templars who did not have his sense of honor.

He cursed again when he realized the truth of it.

What of his father? Surely the man knew the child born of his sin was given to the Chantry. Did he ever once wonder what had become of him? Or did he think his child nothing but an inconvenience to be borne away? Had he realized his mistake and corrected his ways? Or continue on to force others?

He thought of apprentices, having their innocence taken from them in such a vile and ruthless manner, of being forced to endure in silence out of fear.

How many men such as he had been born from such unions? Those, like himself who had no surname? He could think of several offhand. Is this how they kept their numbers full? Breeding with mages and taking their offspring to be raised by the Chantry, to have their young minds shaped and molded into the thing their mothers feared most?

He felt bile rising into his throat.

He believed in the circle, believed in his duty... but with this knowledge he could not stand by and do nothing.

**HAWKE:**

When Hawke stepped into the Hanged Man she felt herself relax for the first time that day. She'd spent the morning being pinned and cinched and made up to look like a lady, or at least a reasonable copy once again, and spent the afternoon with her Mother in Lady Dugain's estate drinking tea with the women of the Hightown Ladies Charitable Works Association.

She'd practically begged her mother to make an excuse, but mother would have none of it, even going so far as to call her a coward.

Her mother was not far off.

She'd eventually relented, playing the part of lady yet again, despite how poorly the role suited. The sitting room was filled with actual proper ladies, and she did her best to hold herself with composure in a setting which made her feel so out of sorts. Trying her hardest to be certain her manners were not too clumsy and her words not too blunt. It was a trial.

And then the afternoon became worse.

Present at the gathering was none other than Colette Theriault, a young widow who's name Hawke knew well, having pried it out of Varric some time ago when she wanted details over a certain Templar's affair. Colette, it turned out, was beautiful. Not merely pretty or attractive, but the type of beautiful bards wrote songs about and the finest of painters failed to capture on canvas. Her face was heart shaped and lovely, her hair a confection of gold ringlets and her eyes large and luminous.

Upon introduction Hawke felt her face pull into a frown. The very face with it's too stark features, too long nose, and too wide mouth that bore little resemblance to her lovely mother and even lovelier sister. The one which tended to freckle in the sun and never bore the creamy quality associated with such beauty as Colette's.

Even worse, the widow's figure was no less fetching than her face, with rounded shoulders, supple arms and a waist that cinched in like a wasp between full bosom and sweetly rounded hips.

Hawke rather felt like a stick next to her. A muddy, brown, freckled stick who spent the next two hours ignoring the urge to pull up the neck of her gown to hide whatever sad cleavage might that might be trying to make itself known.

Worse still, she found the widow's attitude haughty and cool. No doubt the beautiful woman had never associated with anyone who just a couple years past resided in Lowtown of all places. Much less a Ferelden refugee with awkward manners and scars marring the tanned skin of her shoulder and collar bones... not to mention a dozen other places covered by her ridiculous gown.

Though Hawke could not care less what she or the women of her circle thought she knew her mother did - and so aside from trying not to fidget, swear or otherwise humiliate herself,  she also had to fight the urge to deliver a stinging reprimand to Colette's haughty manner.  That proved to be her most difficult trial of the afternoon.

Unfortunately as well, she could easily picture the woman before her simpering up at the Knight-Captain's handsome visage. Cullen might worry for Hawke's safety, his body might even betray his want in the face of wanton behavior on her part, but a man who had lain with such feminine perfection could certainly not want for something less. No wonder he had rebuked every advance she'd foisted upon him.

Though Hawke was not particularly vain, it bothered her more than she cared to admit.

She was relieved when the afternoon came to an end and could not get home quickly enough. Orana helped her with the gown and corset and before long Hawke was dressed in a tunic and breeches and feeling much more herself.

It wasn't quite enough, however. She wanted to forget the sight of golden curls and a rosebud lips and a soft, welcoming figure Hawke could never hope to possess.

Fortunately, Hawke knew the perfect place to accomplish such a task.

"Hawke!" Varric all but bellowed when she made her way up to his suite, a bottle of Corff's finest whiskey (which could not be called fine at all) in one hand and a mug in the other. "I didn't expect you to be around tonight."

"Neither did I, but here I am!" she said, grinning at him. "And Ser Thrask?" she said to his companion with some surprise at seeing a Templar in her friend's company. "I wouldn't have expected you here."

The Templar shook his head, "Just Thrask, tonight if you don't mind. I leave the Ser part off when I have an evening to myself."

"Thrask comes down here once or twice a month," Varric supplied. "It appears we aren't the only ones who enjoy piss flavored ale and vulgar company."

She chucked at Varric and nodded to the knight, "Thrask it is then, and I hope you forgo any 'serah's' or 'messere's' unless they're meant in jest," she added with a grin. "What is it that brings you here tonight? Besides the warm ale and horrid company?"

He laughed at that, "Other than a much needed break? A celebration of sorts, if you can believe it."

"Good news then?"

"Some might see it so," he answered. "I've been working round the clock rearranging the guard within the circle." She waited for him to continue, prodding him with a smile and was rewarded as he continued. "Working with the Senior Enchanters in an attempt to, and believe it or not I quote the Captain here, 'Protect the mages from the Templars.'"

She felt her heart thud in her chest and heard the answering rush of blood ring in her ears, "The Knight-Captain..." she began, almost breathlessly.

"Aye, something lit a fire under him," he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head, not bothering to let her finish. "For two weeks now I've been reassigning those knights who might use their position against the mages to new duties which require little interaction with them. A lot of ruffled feathers, as you can imagine, but it's working. The mages themselves, though few have said as much, seem much more content now that something seems is being done for them, rather than at them."

She knew she was staring at him with opened mouthed shock and covered it with a smile. Sitting the bottle in the middle of the table she raised her mug to his. "Well, that _does_ give cause for celebration, doesn't it?"


	13. Chapter 13

**HAWKE:**

Several hours later the bottle sat nearly empty between the three of them.

"What IS the Knight-Captain like," Hawke asked Thrask and leaning forward. "You know, when he's not being all official and stuffy?"

Varric snorted and she shot him a sharp look before he could make some clever quip about her toying with him.

Thrask shrugged, "He can be a bit harsh, but he's not a bad sort really. Never unkind or unfair, he simply has high expectations."

"Is he always so _bloody_ serious?" she asked.

Thrask barked out a laugh, which she answered with her own. She was not the only one in her cups this evening. "I can't say I've ever heard him laugh, if that is what you mean. After what happened in Ferelden," he did not finish his sentence but instead shook his head sadly.

"What happened in Ferelden?" Varric asked, sparing Hawke from doing so herself.

"You've never heard the story about how he came to be in Kirkwall?" Thrask asked, obviously surprised that the storyteller and spymaster was missing this bit of information.

"Can't say that I have," Varric responded, similarly surprised but eager for details.

"Well," Thrask began, "Prior to coming here he was stationed at Kinloch Hold in Ferelden. Do you know the place?"

"Big tower in Lake Calenhad," Hawke supplied in the event Varric did not know.

"Yes, I was there once years ago, much different than it is here," he waved his hand as though he realized he was venturing from the heart of the story. "Cullen was assigned there, not even a Lieutenant yet I don't believe, when the circle fell. Certainly you've heard about that?" He looked at Varric and Hawke expectantly.

Varric spoke first, "I've heard of it, a little," he said. Hawke nodded in agreement. She'd heard but knew few details. She expected few outside of the Templars and the Chantry did.

"Blood mages took over the circle, horrible situation. Maleficar turned against the mages who were opposed to them, bleeding them, encouraging demons to turn them into abominations. So many dead or lost. The Knight-Commander there feared all within the tower were dead or maleficarum and had sealed off the tower. He was awaiting word that he could perform the Right of Annulment when the Hero of Ferelden showed up."

"I've heard that part," Hawke said. "Turned out not all of the mages had turned to blood magic and she managed to save some."

"Yes, she did. I believe eleven mages in all were saved," he said, and paused before adding, "And one Templar."

"The Knight-Captain?"

"The one and only," he said. "Though other knights had either fallen in battle or became possessed puppets for the blood mages and their demon counterparts,  Cullen did not. Whether they simply could not break him or they kept him alive to toy with I do not know, but from all accounts he came out a changed man."

"What did they do to him?" Hawke said as a terrible weight settled in the pit of her stomach

He shrugged, "Those details are harder to come by, but from what I have gathered he was imprisoned for well over a week and left at the mercy of a desire demon." He shook his head sadly. "If the Knight-Captain comes off too serious, it's not without reason. He may be hard on the men but I believe it's because he does not want others to suffer what he has."

"I had no idea," she said, and truly she hadn't. His determination, she realized, his remarkable strength and serious mien came not from Chantry rhetoric after all, but a deeply personal and painful experience, at least in part.

Varric cleared his throat, "Well, now that we've heard a tragic tale and had our sprits dampened, how about I tell you a story about a certain pirate wench, who shall remain nameless, and a pair of Orleasan nobles and how they left a certain bar with neither their clothes nor dignity intact."

As Varric continued Hawke tuned him out, occasionally downing a swallow of whisky and considered things, perhaps for the very first time, from a different perspective.

**One hour later...  
**

"Stupid fucking... stupid," Hawke muttered to herself. They were the only two words coming easily to mind at this exact moment and in her current state. "Drunk again, you stupid, stupid woman," she muttered when her vocabulary started to return. What she did not add out loud but did repeat in her head was 'Drunk again and sneaking into the Gallows in the middle of the fucking night, you stupid fucking woman.'

In reality it wasn't difficult, actually.  After all, she wasn't sneaking into the circle, which would probably be near impossible, but towards the barracks instead. Even drunk she could easily distract the guards long enough to slip by unnoticed. If she did occasionally stub her toe or walk into a column she was aware enough to keep her tongue in her mouth and quickly move on. It took approximately ten minutes for her to get through the gates to the Knight-Captains door. Which was, of course, locked.

She was never fully unprepared though. Along with a couple of weapons strapped discreetly to her person she never left home without at least a small compliment of lockpicks. She had just inserted her picks into the lock (all the while cursing herself in her head for her stupidity) when, without her aid the door swung inwards and she was met with the scowling face of Ser Cullen.

He glanced into the hall, she assumed to make certain no one else occupied it, before grasping her by the arm and hauling her inside and locking the door behind her.

"What in void are you doing here, Hawke?" he asked sharply.

Well, she hadn't really thought how to answer that, not really, and since her vocabulary hadn't yet fully returned yet she simply stared at him mutely. He glowered at her, brows drawn low over his brow, eyes glittering dangerously, lip pulled back in a sneer.

Maker, was he handsome.

 _'No, no no you stupid fucking woman!'_ Her mind supplied _, 'you did not come here for that!'_

"Cullen," she began but promptly forgot what she was going to say when he turned from her to grab a shirt and pull it over her head, giving her an expansive view of a broad, muscular back and golden skin. He must train without a shirt, for his skin to be so beautifully tanned, she realized, which was not helping her train of thought.

"I will ask you once more Hawke, what are you doing here?" He ground out.

"I-" she swallowed hard. ' _Think of that gorgeous widow_ ,' supplied her whiskey thickened brain, ' _that'll do the trick.'_   Whiskey or not, her brain had the correct idea and put all thoughts of running her hands and lips and tongue over all that delicious golden skin out of her mind.

Oh, yes, she remembered, the mages.

"You've been helping the mages," she said lamely.

He looked at her slightly askew, confusion in his eyes. "I've only asked one of my Lieutenants to oversee rearranging the guard," he said before asking in a much more suspicious tone of voice, "And how did you come by that information?"

She shook her head, ignoring his question. Instead she continued to act the part of _'stupid fucking woman'_ and threw her arms around his neck and hauled herself against him. She buried her face against the warm skin of his neck, trying her hardest to ignore the pleasant way he smelled, and whispered, "Thank you."

He stood rigidly against her onslaught. "I didn't do it for you," he said gruffly, though for a moment one of his hands came to rest on her lower back as he tentatively returned her embrace. Unfortunately it did not last long, obviously remembering himself he disentangled her arms from around his neck and pulled her off him.

"I don't care," she said when he set her away from him. He looked at her confused for a moment and she hastily added, "I don't care that you didn't do it for me. Only that you did it."

"Ah… well," he cleared his throat in discomfort, which she found remarkably adorable.  After a moment he cocked his head at her, "You broke into the Gallows, in the middle of the night, drunk... _again_... to thank me for rearranging the guard?"

A laugh bubbled up between her lips, and she shrugged, "I've never been known to have very good control over my impulses."

"You are a ridiculous woman," he said, but she could have sworn there was a trace of humor in his voice, it only made her smile more.

After a moment of regarding each other quietly, she said "I should probably go."

He raised his brows at that, but said nothing.

She made her way to the door, not taking his eyes from him, and unlatched the lock. She smiled again, certain she was coming off as deranged but not particularly caring and said before opening the door, "Goodnight, Cullen."

"Goodnight, Hawke," she heard in reply just as the door closed behind her.


	14. Chapter 14

**CULLEN:**

_He writhed against the floor, his hands and feet bound by some invisible tether, unable to escape that filthy touch no matter how he twisted and turned. Unable to tune out the words spoken against his skin despite his prayers. Every caress sent a jolt of pleasure through him; oily, filthy, soul tainting pleasure which had no place in this world._

_"... when you finally give in, and you will give in, you will be the most loyal of my servants..." the vile creature slithered over him, inside of him, invading and violating..._

_He withdrew into himself, shutting his eyes against the sight of her.. of **its**...flesh, intoning quietly he recited, "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."_

_The demon cackled and sent another jolt of pleasurable pain through his body. It crawled inside him, under his skin, and jerked him back to the present. He fought on, "Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow, In their blood the Maker's will is written."_

_"Where is your Maker now, Templar? Hmm?" it whispered, "where is his bride?" His skin crawled with its vulgar taint. Burning, throbbing, itching and stinging... but over that, pleasure. Foul and wicked and false._

_"Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, Should they set themselves against me." But in truth he had not been so faithful. Not really. He believed in the Maker, in Andraste but he had always questioned..._

_The creature laughed again, and he realized his mistake too late. It had sensed his doubt. "That's right, Templar. You have questioned, haven't you?" It slipped over him, straddling him, fingers in his hair, whispering words against his ears, telling him truths he knew, but twisting them for its own foul purpose._

_He tried to shut her... it...out of his thoughts, but once so firmly entrenched it did not give up its hold easily. He knew this, he'd fought this a hundred times, a thousand, over days or weeks he could not tell, and as time continued to stretch and compress it became more difficult to push it away. His resistance was merely a delay at this point, but he would resist for as long as he was able._

_"You have questioned the imprisonment of mages, of their repression," it purred._

_No! He wanted to shout, but it would be a lie. He had thought the circle to harsh, too cruel and cold in its absolutes. To imprison someone so completely for accident of birth, to treat them as less than human..._

_"That's right, Templar," it continued to purr against him, trailing it's fingers against his skin and his mind and his soul. "Why should they not be allowed freedom? Why should they be locked away from the world, forced to endure the Templar's unrelenting gaze. To know nothing of pleasure..."_

_The creatures face twisted, it's horns and silvery flesh giving away to a fall of blonde hair and downy skin... it was the apprentice, the elven one. The sweet girl who sent him blushing smiles whenever they crossed paths. The one he looked at in longing though he knew it could never be. He was a Templar and she a mage, and he would allow for nothing more than that, as was right. But now..._

_...she leaned towards him, cascade of hair brushing against his face. So beautiful and welcoming. She smiled at him, but ..._

_No._

_Something was ... wrong._

_It wasn't she._

_He snapped his eyes shut against the deception and was rewarded with another lash of pain and pleasure and an intensified connection to that thing. "Maker, though the darkness comes upon me," he heard himself speaking, his voice stronger than before, "I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder!"_

_The creature continued to writhe against him, breathe against him, burrowing and clawing inside him like a parasite. It continued to draw on his memories and twist them into half-truths. Cullen continued to resist._

_And then it stopped playing nice._

_Pain._

_Pain so intense it transcended the physical, pain so intense it invaded every corner of his being until there was nothing left but contort in agony. So overwhelming and all-encompassing he longed to beg for mercy. To throw himself at the creatures feet and swear fealty, if only to end this timeless suffering._

_But all he could do was scream._

When he jolted awake he lay frozen in place, the creatures touch still with him despite the years that had passed. He drew a deep, ragged breath and began counting backwards, willing his heart to cease its wild pounding. He closed his eyes and the vision of it straddling him rose up above him...

_"...you will never be free of me, Templar..."_

He sat up quickly and just managed to make it to the chamber pot before he emptied his stomach. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he sat on the edge of the mattress and put his hands on either side of his head. Taking several more deep breaths he leaned forward onto his knees, trying to get his body once more under his control.

The dream, or more accurately he supposed, memories, did not come to him every night.  But they never left, always lingering in the back of his mind. They didn't fade, become less potent, and he doubted they ever would. It was like the demon had left some part of itself inside him, and it lurked there, watching, waiting and making him remember. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and he bent over the chamber pot again, dry heaving fruitlessly.

After minutes the vertigo dissipated and he sat up. A look out the window told him the sun wasn't yet up, but would be soon. There was little point in attempting to sleep once again; there never was whenever he woke in such a manner. Instead he rose and splashed his face with cold water. His reflection stared back from the small mirror he used for shaving; skin pale and eyes sunk.

The air inside him chamber seemed stagnant suddenly, stifling. A walk, he decided, would go far to clear his mind. He thought of rousing his squire but had no desire to speak with anyone, at least not yet. Besides, there was no reason they should both go without sleep. He dressed in the simple leather armor he preferred to train in and left, heading for the chantry.

 

**HAWKE:**

Hawke dragged her leg along behind her as she slowly made her way up the stairs leading to Hightown proper. The sun had just risen above the horizon and soon the city was just beginning to stir. She would need to send for Anders once she got home. Her injuries had been severe, and while she managed to heal herself enough to stop the bleeding she was not, in any way shape or form, a healer. Her efforts had left her mana drained before she could address her knee or ribs.

Her next step proved unfortunate and pain radiated from said knee, "Nug humping son of a ..."

"Hawke?" a voice from above her said, halting her muttering.

Her head shot up and she found the source of her name immediately. Cullen was at the top of the stairs wearing a set of leather armor which made him look nothing like his normal Templary self. As he approached she smiled in a self-depreciating manner, which caused a barely healed split in her lip to reopen. She touched the edge of it with her tongue and it came away coppery with blood.

Once he took in her appearance fully he moved to her side, placing a hand at her elbow to assist her. "What in the void happened?" he asked with concern when he neared. That note of concern in his voice warmed her, but she shook it off.

"Oh, this? This nothing. The other guy can't say as much." she quipped. She gratefully allowed him to bare some of her weight and they started moving towards the top of the rise.

His mouth tightened at the corners in irritation. "Who?" he asked with a frown.

"Just some thugs who thought I would make an easy target. No one of consequence," she replied nonchalantly. In truth it had been simply some thugs, nothing which would normally prove any difficulty, except there had been eight of them and only one of her.

His frown deepened. "I believe I've warned you that skinny women wandering around after dark invite trouble," he said, his voice ever so slightly condescending.

She snorted, "Really, Cullen, now is not the time for 'I told you so'," she insisted stubbornly, though it was probably the perfect time for it, she simply wasn't in the mood to hear it.  She stepped poorly and a jolt of pain shot up her leg, she let out a gasp.

He slipped his arm around her waist to take more of her weight, which under any other circumstances she would have delighted her to no end. Unfortunately in the current circumstance it only made her discomfort worse.

"Watch the ribs," she hissed between clenched teeth.

"Maker's breath," he said, clearly exasperated. "You are going to get yourself killed one of these days."

"Yes, yes," she said with a bored sigh and a wave of her free hand, "I know. Reckless behavior and all that."

He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. After a moment he said, with a great deal more patience than she expected, "At least allow me to assist you home."

Well, certainly better than dragging her own lame arse the rest of the way. "Gladly," she accepted, placing a hand on his shoulder as they reached the top of the stairs. She turned her head to look at him, noting the shadows beneath his eyes. "What are you doing out this time of day? And what are you wearing?" she asked, noticing how the leather hugged his form in the most tempting manner. "I _approve_..." she couldn't help but add purr which could only be described as 'Isabela-y' despite the fact that she'd sworn of flirting with the man.

The corners of his mouth turned up for half a second, most probably wouldn't have noticed it as fleeting as it was. But she'd been studying his expressions when she could for several years now and considered herself an expert on such things. Despite everything one would assume about the man he did in fact have a sense of humor. It was just rather difficult to spot most of the time.

"I was on my way to the Chantry," he responded without actually answering.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, judging by the shadows under his eyes and the general weariness he seemed to carry.

He glanced down at her, brows furrowed before looking away. "No. I could not," he admitted before changing to the subject. "And as to what I am wearing, I saw no reason to rouse my squire so early to help me with my armor."

"That was kind of you," she said offhandedly, concentrating on maintaining her balance on only one good leg.

"Just because I'm a Templar doesn't mean I cannot be kind," he snapped. He halted suddenly, and she stopped with him. He bowed his head, his brow furrowed, "I apologize. That was undeserved."

She waved him off, "It's alright. You're tired. I become unbearable when I haven't had enough sleep."

He smiled briefly, if tightly, "I appreciate your understanding," he said as they resumed their slow pace. He turned towards her once again as they walked, "Unbearable?" he asked with a trace of dry humor.

She and grinned up at him, "Hard to believe, I know."

When he smiled this time he did not bother to hide it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After re-reading this story and cleaning it up prior to (finally) posting chapter 19 - I wanted to note that the first half of this chapter (Cullen's nightmare) was not easy to write - but the end result is probably the part of the story I'm most proud of. Let me know what you think in that little comments box below :)


	15. Chapter 15

**CULLEN:**

The second time he entered the Amell estate he did so using the servant entrance in the back. Hawke had insisted, indicating that she tried to be discreet when coming and going at all hours..

"They neighbors don't approve of me," she had said, grinning up at him with a shrug. 

"I can't imagine why," he said dryly, fighting his own urge to grin down at her.

Her smile grew and she laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder for a heartbeat. He had never been known for his humor. Even before... everything that happened... he'd always been rather serious and determined. But for some reason being able to make her laugh pleased him, and the sound of it made him feel lighter.

When they reached her door he insisted on helping her inside and she directed him towards the study he'd been in before. They passed the kitchen on the way where voices could be heard from within. A flurry of activity at the door produced her mother, looking flustered and a bit horrified by the sight of her daughter.

"Marian! What in Andraste's name happened?" the elder Hawke female's eyes met his for a moment and her eyes bore a thinly veiled look of accusation.

"Just the usual, Mother. I will be fine," she smiled at her reassuringly. "The Knight-Captain was kind enough to assist me home when he found me."

The other woman's expression softened, "Thank you."

"It was no trouble," he replied.

"I appreciate it just the same," she said, glaring at her daughter. "She's always been a bit headstrong."

Headstrong was too soft a word, in his estimation, but he wasn't given an opportunity to comment.

"Would you mind if we continued this in the study?" Hawke cut in, "I would appreciate being able to take my boot off before I am forced to do so with a knife."

"Of course," he said, allowing her to continue leaning on her as they made their way there. He helped her to one of the comfortable chairs facing the fireplace, and she sat down with an audible sigh. From behind him her mother spoke.

"How bad is it?" she asked, voice laced with concern.

"It's nothing mother, really," Hawke answered.

Cullen couldn't help but disagree. "I believe her injuries are worse than she is admitting to either of us, my lady. She could do with healing." He turned to Hawke, "I will have someone sent."

Hawke's mouth pinched slightly, "That is not necessary."

Of course she would decline, he was not surprised, the stubborn woman. "Hawke, broken ribs can be..." He did not have the chance to finish as she cut him off.

"Cullen," she said, looking up at him and shaking her head, "I have my own people. You know I have my own people. There is very little point in dancing around the fact."

"Marian!" her mother exclaimed, looking nervously between the two of them.

He did, actually, know that. The fact that Hawke associated with at least one apostate, if not more, was not a well-guarded secret. The identity of her apostate associate, or associates, was unknown, though the matter had been thoroughly investigated. Whoever they were, she kept their secrets well.

"Your daughter is correct," he said rather stiffly. "It is well known that she allies herself with apostates, despite the danger it places her in," he couldn't help but add. "If I had any intention of dragging her to the Gallows for interrogation over the matter I would have done so long before now."

Her mother relaxed somewhat, turning towards her. "You should still exercise caution, Marian. Your father taught you better," she scolded. "And how many times have I worried about you wandering the city after dark? Did you even have anyone with you?"

"I wonder the same thing," he added, folding his arms across his arm and looking down at her.

She narrowed her eyes at him, "At the time, I was alone," she admitted reluctantly, her jaw bearing its familiar stubborn set. "It's not as though I planned to get jumped. I rarely have any trouble this early in the day."

"You're the last of my children at home, now that Carver has..." the woman stopped herself, glancing at him briefly.

"It's alright," he said with a wave of his hand.

Hawke sighed, "I'm sorry, mother. I will try to be more careful in the future."

He found that hard to believe given that recklessness seemed to be part of her nature. He glanced at her mother again; the woman's face was still creased with concern. "If it puts your mind to ease, my lady, I have received favorable reports regarding your son. It seems he's settled in well and his superiors have praised his skill with a blade. They believe he will be an asset to the order one day."

The worry lifted from her brow and she smiled at him warmly, "Thank you, ser. A mother does worry."

He was glad to see her put at ease. No doubt the poor woman had more than enough to worry about already with her daughter. "I do have to wonder why you had not heard of his success already?"

She smiled sadly, "He has not yet sent word or stopped by since he left."

It seemed a rather selfish move on the boys part. "If I see him I will suggest he return home, if only to ease your mind further."

She beamed up at him and squeezed his arm. "I would be grateful, ser," she said sincerely before turning to her daughter and frowning. She folded her arms across her chest, "And you would be wise to be more careful during your late night wanderings," she said firmly.

"Yes, mother," Hawke said, smiling sheepishly at her.

The older woman sent her a look which seemed to indicate disbelief, but she nodded once more and spoke, "Orana was just starting breakfast. I'll fetch you a plate and some tea." Turning to him and offering another smile, "Have you eaten?" He opened his mouth to reply but she beat him to it. "Of course you haven't. I'll bring you a plate as well."

"That is not necessary..." he began.

The older woman would have none of it; stubbornness was a family trait it seemed. "Nonsense, I insist. Please, take a seat. I will go check on Orana, it should be ready shortly."

"Very well," he relented, "Thank you."

She left the room, sending her daughter a daunting look. He turned when he heard a low laugh from Hawke. She was looking at him, eyes crinkled with humor and a smile lurking on her lips.

He raised a brow in question, "Something amusing, Hawke?"

"Oh, just you," she said, lips twitching, "charming breakfast out of my mother just seconds after she was busy reprimanding me for speaking so openly in front of a Templar," she said with a chuckle.

He could help but grin back, but quickly schooled his features back into place. "I know you find it hard to believe, but not everyone considers me, and I quote you, a 'colossal prig'."

She laughed again, the sound pleasant and warm. "The title still stands. It just happens to be that mother _adores_ colossal prigs."

He felt his returning smile. She looked away and began undoing the buckles of her boots, wincing and placing a hand across her as she leaned forward to do so.

"Allow me," he said on instinct, kneeling before her and unfastening the buckles.

"Thank you," she said quietly as he worked. He looked up at her, and a question must have been present in his expression. She continued. "Not just for helping me home, or," she nodded at her leg, "for this. But thank you, for talking to mother. I know she's been sick over Carver."

He nodded. "It's true, what I said about him. His superiors are impressed and he's well liked."

She smiled, though there was little humor in it. "Aveline said the order might be good for him. Perhaps she was right."

"Would that truly be so terrible?" he asked, finishing with her buckles and truly curious as to her answer.

"It wasn't what I wanted for him," she began, pausing as she seemed to consider for a moment.

He pulled the boot from her good leg off before gingerly sliding the other down her leg, careful not to twist or pull too hard. "He intends to find his own path, rather than he one you had picked out. It shows incentive, at least."

"I suppose," she sighed, "I just wish he would have handled it differently. Would have been nice to give mother some time to get used to the idea before rushing off and joining." The corners of her mouth turned down slightly, but the expression did not last. She looked down where he knelt before him and raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile working its way across her lips once more. It was then he realized she was free of her boots and he was sitting there absentmindedly rubbing her calf.

Heat rushed to his face and he immediately released her leg. "I apologize," he sputtered and rose. "I don't know what I was thinking. I must be more tired than I thought," he said by way of excuse. He paced the length of the study and looked out the window, giving his face a moment to cool and him a moment to consider exactly what he had been doing - and why, exactly, he was even here.

"So," she ventured behind him at length, "What are you doing up and out so early?" she asked, clearly less disturbed by his actions and presence than he was. He turned and she motioned towards the chair beside hers.

"I believe we already determined it was because I could not sleep," he said, joining her once again, though considering excuses to leave. This ... whatever was between them, was becoming too comfortable, too familiar.

"Yes, yes," she waved off his excuse. "I would imagine though, that like me, most nights you're asleep before your head hits the pillow," she correctly assumed. "I rarely have trouble sleeping unless something is on my mind," she finished, a question in her statement.

That was true enough, though he had no desire to divulge the true answer. She was waiting for a response, "Of late there is much on my mind," he said vaguely.

She cocked her head at him and he could see her mind working behind her eyes. She chewed on her bottom lip, irritating the split there. He was just about to say something when she spoke again, asking softly, "Is it because of what happened to you in Ferelden?"

The air felt leaden in his lungs. That she knew something of his past was not surprising, most in the city were aware he'd been at Kinloch hold and when. But her knowing of his past and her knowing that it still haunted him were two entirely different things.   He'd left his country behind in an attempt to remove himself from his past, and resented the fact that it had followed him to Kirkwall.  Her knowing of it was one thing, her deducing it haunted him still something else entirely.  He fled not only his past, but also the pitying glances which seemed to follow him since the circle broke.

"What happened in Ferelden will... is not something I can escape," he admitted reluctantly.  Her eyes softened with sympathy, which immediately set him on edge. "But neither am I some damaged stray who has to lick his wounds and be coddled for past treatment," the statement came off too harsh, his tone too arrogant, but he made no apologies for it.

"I didn't say you were," she said, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"It is not something I care to discuss," The last thing he desired was to see _her_ eyes look upon him with pity.

"I'm...  I didn't mean to pry."

He nodded once in recognition of her apology, realizing just how out of place he was in her home. There were a dozen or more reasons not to get involved with the woman sitting beside him on any level, and this was altogether too familiar. He needed to leave, put some distance between them, and then he needed to _stay_ away.

At that moment her mother reappeared bearing a tray. He stood when she entered the room and made a bow to them both.

"I'm afraid I must be off," he said to them. "I suddenly remembered that I have something to take care of after my trip to the Chantry."

"Are you certain?" her mother asked. "I could have something wrapped for you to take with you?"

"Thank you, but that isn't necessary," he said, realizing Hawke was staring at him, a line between her brows. "I do appreciate your hospitality, my lady," he said to Hawke's mother before turning to her daughter, "Hawke," he said, inclining his head. "I wish you both a good day."

She nodded to him but said nothing. He could feel her eyes on his back as he made his way out.

 

**HAWKE:**

  
"What did you say to drive that nice young man off?" Hawke's mother asked her accusingly after they heard the door shut announcing his exit.

"Mother!" she exclaimed. "You were ready to call him out when he brought me in just a short time ago."

"That was before I knew he had come to your rescue," she said as though it explained everything.

"He didn't come to my rescue," she defended, "I didn't need any rescue! He just helped me home."

Her mother remained determined, which was not surprising. "He offered you a kindness as a gentleman should," she insisted, "the least you could do is show some appreciation."

Hawke stared dumbfounded for several seconds. Was this the same woman, who along with her father had browbeat warnings about any and all possible interactions with Templars?

"He IS a Templar, you know," she said, in case she had forgotten.

But the other woman would have none of it. "Not all Templars are terrible. Why, if it wasn't for a Templar your father never would have had his freedom and we would have never married."

"That is a rather abrupt, not to mention convenient, change of opinion, Mother," Hawke said accusingly.

She waved her off as though she were speaking nonsense. "I saw the way he was looking at you," her mother added. "And you were returning those looks," Hawke moved to speak but was cut off with a wave of her hand. "He's a very handsome man."

Well, she couldn't really disagree with that.

"The two of you would make beautiful babies," she continued in Hawke's silence.

Hawke made a noise much like a cat being strangled.

"It's really past time you found someone and settled down," her mother continued.

"Oh, yes, I can see it now," Hawke replied when she finally found her voice. " 'Oh Cullen, I am tired of denying my love for you. By the way, _ser_ , I'm a mage, I hope that won't be a problem."

Her mother sniffed, which was her way of saying she didn't acknowledge her response as valid. She seemed to be considering something for a moment before turning narrowed eyes back to Hawke, "Are you certain he doesn't already know?"

"Of course not!" Hawke said, "If he knew I can assure you that I would be in the Gallows right now. He's very rigid in his beliefs, mother."

Ever determined the woman would just not give up her cause. "You'd be surprised how men's beliefs can change given the proper motivation." she stated finally.

Hawke's mouth dropped open and she stared at her with open shock.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she said, repressing her smile with a stern look. "You don't get to be my age without learning a thing or two about men."

Hawke continued to stare, horrified.

The older woman sniffed, "Certainly he would be a better choice for you than Anders."

"What?" she said, confused by the turn in the conversation. "There's nothing going on between me and Anders!"

"Good, I wasn't certain," her mother said, and Hawke realized she'd fallen right into her net.  Mother had always had an uncanny ability to pry the truth out of her children without ever asking a single question.  "He's a lovely, kind boy and he's been of great service to the refugee's and the poor, but he's far too obsessed with that manifesto of his, and he's been much too preoccupied lately."

"Is that what you think whenever I bring a friend home? What sort of husband they would make for me?"

"Well, I'm not getting any younger, Marian. And neither are you," she stated firmly.

"I'm twenty six!"

"Exactly, my love, you're not the freshest produce at the market these days," Leandra said just as firmly.

Hawke had no response, though none seemed necessary as her mother continued, "Since the handsome Templar is out of the question I suggest you take a trip to the Chantry as well. Sebastian is a good man, and a prince on top of that."

"Vows of chastity, mother," she said for the hundredth time. "He's married to Andraste."

"As I said, daughter, men's minds can be changed with the proper motivation."


	16. Chapter 16

 

**CULLEN:**

He did not see her except from a distance for several weeks after that morning. He was relieved she kept her distance. It had been one thing to deny his physical attraction to her over the years. He'd been denying himself in one way or another his entire life, and it was in truth no great difficulty. But denying his newfound curiosity of her, his desire to know her better, that was another matter altogether.

Given the current state of the city and the circle things were best left alone. It was not a time for him to be lax in his duties and he certainly didn't need any distractions. Unfortunately, despite the distance, he still found his thoughts wandering to her with discomforting frequency. In fact he was having trouble sleeping, and for once it had nothing to do with his memories.

He was nearly asleep after a bout of insomnia one evening when a pounding at the door roused him. He groaned and rolled over, climbing out of bed. "What is it?" he said shortly as he opened the door.

The young recruit stuttered a moment before answering. "There is a disturbance at the gates, ser."

"What sort of disturbance?"

"It is Messere Hawke, ser," He said nervously.

 _Well, she certainly has impeccable timing,_ he thought. He had to wonder though, if she desired entrance to the gallows in the middle of the evening, why did she not simply break in? He turned to the guard as he pulled on a shirt. "What does she want?"

The younger man straightened himself under his gaze, "She demands to see her brother, ser."

Carver was currently stationed in the Gallow's chapel, standing vigil over a knight who had recently lost his life while apprehending an apostate. Certainly the guards knew that. "Her brother is standing vigil at the chapel and is not to be disturbed."

"I know, ser. I mean, we told her that, ser. But she demands entry anyway. She told us to find you..." he stammered, "well, it's _Hawke_ , ser." the guard shrugged his shoulders as if to say ' _what could I do?'_

There probably little to be done other than to give into her demands, he knew. "Give me a moment," he said and turned back to his quarters. He hastily finished dressing and tossed a cloak around his shoulders. At this hour it would have to do. He left the comforts of his rooms and followed the guard outside.

The night was cool and damp and he was uncertain as to the hour, only that the sky was black and showed no indication of beginning to turn to day. As he approached the gates he saw her immediately. The torchlight lit her form as paced from one side of the gate to the other like some caged animal. He was suddenly on alert; Hawke was not the sort of woman given to pacing.

He sped up his pace and was soon nearing the gates. "What brings you here this time of night, Hawke?" He asked, trying once again to keep the concern out of his voice. Her face was illuminated by the torches on as she turned. Absent was her usual smirk, all traces of humor were gone from her visage. Her face was pale, streaked with blood, and her eyes unguarded and uncertain. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

She curled her fists around the bars, "I must see my brother."

"He's standing vigil, as I'm sure you've been told," he pressed for a reason, "Could this not wait until the morning?"

"There has been a death. Our Mother." She took a steadying breath and said quite plainly, "Please, Cullen, I must see him."

Without hesitation he looked to the men manning the gates and gave them the signal to open them. She sighed in obvious relief and squeezed through before they were completely open. "Thank you," she muttered once inside, eyes unfocused and darting across the darkened courtyard.

He'd never seen her like this, and he certainly didn't like it. "I will escort serah Hawke to her brother. The rest of you, return to your duties." The men obeyed his order without comment and he turned to her. He held out his arm which she took gratefully, her hand small and cool through the linen of his shirt. She was obviously still shaken, her hand trembled where she touched him and her face was ghostly white.

"How did it happen?" he asked softly.

She turned her head away from him, swallowing hard before whispering on a shuddering breath, "In the most vile way possible."

"Hawke," he began, uncertain what to say.

She cut him off with a shake of her head. He desperately wanted to press her for details, but respectfully held himself back. Their walk to the chapel was silent, and he couldn't seem to stop himself from peering at her pale face with concern.

When they reached the chapel doors he stopped and spoke quietly, "He's through here."

She froze, eyes locked on the door. "Is he alone?"

"Yes," he answered, fighting the urge to touch her, offer her some comfort.

She swallowed and hesitated.

He placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm, "Would you like me to come with you?"

She looked at him them, her face softening for a moment before hardening with resolve. "Thank you, but I must do this myself."

He nodded once, "I will be waiting here to escort you back to the gates."

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

The chapel adjacent to the Gallows was not a public place, it was a private one, built specifically for the order. Though services were held there it was too small a space to house all Templars living in Kirkwall and most chose instead to visit the Chantry proper. It was used most frequently for funeral rights. Cullen stood outside the entrance. He could not make out Hawke's words to her brother from where he stood, though he could hear her hushed voice.

 _"This is your fault!"_ Carver's voice carried through the heavy wood of the doors.

Again he was met with her hushed tones, and could not make out her words, but Carver's reaction was all too clear.

_"First Beth and now this!"_

This time he could hear her, her voice rough and pained. _"Blame me for anything you want, brother, but Bethany's death will not be put on my shoulders any longer!"_

More words, quiet and pleading words, deep and accusing ones, but he could make out little for several moments.

_"And who are you to judge me? I did what I had to do, for you and Mother and Bethany!"_

_"And it wasn't enough, was it?"_

_"I tried, Carver!"_

_"And you failed, sister."_

_"Carver..."_

_"Go. Just go. I have nothing more to say to you."_

It was moments later when he heard the chapel door open. When she emerged some of the color had returned to her face, flushed from their argument no doubt, though she appeared no less shaken. She did not meet his eyes but looked out over the courtyard. He extended his arm for her, which she took after a hesitation, and began leading her towards the gates.

"I do no know how much you heard-" she began slowly, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Very little, and what I did hear I will keep to myself."

"I ... thank you." She reached up and rubbed her forehead.

He looked at her with concern, "Are you in need of healing? I'm sure one of mages-"

She looked down at herself suddenly, as though surprised that her armor was blooded and damaged. "No...I'm not injured."

He nodded, but did not comment. The gates opened at their approach. "How did you get here this time of night?" he wondered out loud. He knew that the ferryman could be difficult to rouse at this hour, and was likely to ignore anyone who tried save for a knight. She indicated the empty rowboat moored at the docks. Well, he certainly wasn't going to set her loose in this state. Particularly after he'd pointed out her folly in wandering around at night alone. Twice.

"Allow me to escort you home."

She looked up at him then, clearly startled by his offer. "That's hardly necessary," she began in protest.

"I insist," he said in a tone which brokered no argument.

She swallowed and nodded. He motioned to the men guarding the gates, who shut them again when they stepped through. He allowed her to climb into the boat before untying it and following her. She shivered; he removed his cloak and placed it over her shoulders. She smiled tightly in gratitude before he sat down and began rowing.

He rowed quietly, allowing her some time to regain her composure. At least, that was one of the reasons for his silence. He was not adept at offering comfort. Circle life, even for the Templars bound to it, was cold, for lack of a better word. Softness and empathy made living within the strict rules of the order difficult; becoming hardened to the realities of such a life made it significantly easier. Yet he found himself, for the first time in years, wishing to offer her something, anything, to soften the blow she had suffered.

"I am sorry about your mother, Hawke." He said quietly when they were halfway across the narrow strait.

"Thank you," she said, her voice raw.

"I know it's none of my concern, but may I ask what happened?"

"It's... fine. You will hear of it soon enough." She craned her neck back and looked up at the sky and taking a deep, shuddering breath before speaking. "Ser Emeric was correct regarding the blood mage he claimed was abducting women." She gave a bitter laugh, "No one believed him, I wasn't even certain despite the fact I'd helped him previously. But he was right."

He cursed under his breath; he had been one of those nonbelievers. He moved to say something, but he couldn't find the words to offer her and found himself unable to speak.

"He was collecting their bodies," she took a shaky breath. "Taking them apart and sewing them back together to create the perfect woman..." She stopped, clearly unable to go on.

"Sweet Andraste," he breathed in horror.

In a small voice she finished, "Mother's head was the final piece."

His hands clenched against the oars, for several beats he forgot to row.

Her eyes snapped to him, as if suddenly remembering something, "Emeric is gone as well. He got there before we did and was alone. I'm sorry."

"What of the mage?" he knew what the answer was, but he needed to hear it.

"Dead," she said, her voice hard. "Though he did not suffer as he deserved."

He nodded and continued to row silently as Hawke turned her face up o the stars once again, remaining that way until they reached the other dock. He led her towards her estate, she followed, saying nothing, eyes shuttered and guarded once again, obviously deep in thought.

She hesitated again, just outside her door. He reached around her and took the key from her hand, unlocking and opening the door for her. He ushered her inside, settled her in a chair, and set about removing her boots and gauntlets. She watched him impassively from where she sat.

"Carver is right. I failed her. Just like I failed Bethany." She spoke quietly, he was uncertain if the words were meant for him or if she was just thinking out loud.

"Bethany?" he prodded gently.

"Our sister, Carver's twin. She died when we were fleeing the blight." Her voice cracked slightly, "She was... the best of us," she continued, more softly. "An ogre killed her just outside of Lothering. Mother blamed me for it, at least at first. Carver, too, but unlike mother he never stopped blaming me."

He couldn't imagine she would sit idly by while such a thing took place. She was a woman of action, to be certain. "I'm sure you did your best to save her, Hawke."

"It wasn't enough," she said, staring into the flames.

"Hawke, you know that sometimes, no matter our actions, the outcome is not always what we strive for."

She moved to say something, but closed her mouth and hung her head instead.

Cullen found himself moving towards her, crouching down in front of the chair she occupied and taking her hands in his own. She met his eyes then, and the despair he saw reflected in them could not be borne. He reached forward and cupped her face with one hand, brushing his thumb against her cheekbone. That simple touch of his fingers appeared to be the final push needed for her grief to pour through. He brushed her tears away.

He stood, taking her with him, and after only a slight hesitation, put his arms around her, pulling her to him tucking her head under his chin as though it was the most natural thing in the world. She let out a shuddering breath and pressed her face against him, her arms circling and gripping him as though without him as an anchor she would suddenly fall. She cried quietly against him, her tears soaking through his shirt as silent sobs wracked her body.

He held her like that for several minutes, stroking her back and mumbling words meant to soothe against her hair. Eventually her grip on him lessened, she relaxed against him as her sobs died down. They did not step away from each other until a throat was being discreetly cleared behind them.

Her dwarven houseman stood there looking uncomfortable, "I am sorry to interrupt."

"It's alright, Bohdan," she said quietly, putting some distance between them.

"Messere, I am truly sorry for you loss. We will all miss her so."

She swallowed hard, nodding at the dwarf, her lips pressed in a grim line.

The dwarf cleared his throat again. "A bath has been prepared for you," he continued, "it will need reheating but it will only take a moment. I'll have a tray brought up to your room."

"That isn't necessary," she began, but Cullen interjected his own opinion.

"Please see that her bath is heated. And a tray will be most welcome," he doubted she would eat, but perhaps she would consider it. "A bit of wine as well, I think."

"Right away, Ser," her houseman said, adding, "And thank you, for bringing her home."

Cullen nodded and watched the dwarf's form retreat before turning to her again. He directed her to the chair once more and she sat without comment.

"Do you... wish to talk about it?" he asked, uncertain what he could possibly do and feeling incredibly out of his depth.

Her eyes met his, swollen and red, "I wouldn't even know where to begin."

He nodded and squeezed her hands again. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Almost as though realizing he was there, in her home in the middle of the night she stood abruptly, pulling him with her. "No. No. You've already done more than -" she began speaking and pulling him towards the door at the same time. He stopped her.

"It's no trouble, Hawke," he said sincerely, "I am glad to have been of service.".

She swallowed as she looked up at him. "We've never exactly been friends," she said, "I appreciate the kindness you've shown me this evening."

She was right, of course, they hadn't ever been friends. But they'd always been... _something_. "Perhaps we haven't been friends, as you say, but for all your antics we're certainly not strangers.  Though I may not always approve of your actions or agree with you, you've always had my respect."

She offered him a small, tight smile in appreciation, "and despite our differences, you have mine as well."

He squeezed her hand where it rested on his arm before letting himself out.

 

 

**CULLEN:**

He attended the service for her mother a few days later. There were few in attendance, perhaps two dozen people in all. Carver was present, seated as far away from Hawke as possible; she herself was surrounded by people. The beardless dwarf was with her, along with the elf and a blond man he did not recognize. The brother he had seen her with before was beside her as well as Guard Captain Aveline. Cullen chose a seat in the back near the exit.

He wanted, desperately wanted, to go to her and... well he wasn't entirely certain. Comfort her, support her, help her deal with her grief somehow. Yet at the same time he once again realized how out of place he was here. Her friends surrounded her. The blond man put his arm around her and she rested her head against his shoulder. The brother spoke some words to her and she smiled a small smile. Aveline rested a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up suddenly and met his eyes where he stood apart from everyone. Their gazes held for a moment. He inclined his head towards her in acknowledgement before turning and leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - I would like to apologize to Carver fans for making him such a jackass. In truth, I adore the little shit to bits and I wish he'd been more present in the game. But for this story I have to play up his jerk side.
> 
> Also, look at that! There's a kudos button just below this! Hit it if you like it, or better yet, leave a comment! It really helps motivate me, and I am not too proud to admit that I sometimes need A LOT of motivation!


	17. Chapter 17

**CULLEN:**

He wasn't certain if she stayed away because she had withdrawn while she mourned, or if she had been intentionally been avoiding him, but more than a month passed without even a glimpse of her.  He had seen her brother several times, it was difficult not to, and resisted the urge to reprimand him for his behavior towards her.  In truth he knew little of their relationship, outside of the bitterness on Carver's part, and it was certainly not his place to intervene, despite such urges.

More difficult still, resisting his desire from going to her. He had stopped himself from doing so a half dozen times at least. His concern for her continued to disturb him, though he no longer tried to deny it.  Hawke, that impulsive, stubborn, frustrating woman whom he had wanted to strangle too many times to count, had managed to win him over with her strength and wit and charm.

And now, Maker help him, he cared.

Regardless, he kept his distance.  An impromptu visit simply to ascertain her well-being would only confuse matters more.  Despite his desires, he remained true to his belief that any romantic link between he and Hawke was a foolish idea.  Given the tension within the city and within the circle the day could come when they might stand on opposite sides of something more serious than a heated debate. A possibility which made him increasingly uneasy.

He was brought from such thoughts abruptly when his door slammed open and an ashen faced Knight spoke in a rush. "Captain, the Qunari are taking the city!"

"The-" he began, not certain he had heard that correctly. "What did you just say?"

"It's the Qunari, ser. The Commander is at the gates.  You must come at once!"

He followed the knight out, grabbing his gauntlets and sword, hoping against all else that he had been exaggerating.  As they sped through the corridors he yelled at his men to ready themselves, though most were already doing just that.  An undercurrent of anxiety was tangible within the halls. The moment he exited the main door he could smell the smoke in the evening air and he hastened his steps, moving into a jog as he made his way to the gates, nearly colliding with several men as Kirkwall spread out before his eyes.

The city was _burning_.

Flames licked along the docks, and farther north, towards Lowtown as well.  Thick black fingers of smoke reached towards the sky and screams could be heard across the bay.  Meredith was staring out over the city as a ferry was loaded with men and supplies.

"Commander, what news?"

She turned to him, mouth in a grim line. "The docks are in shambles. The Qunari are no longer, to our knowledge, present there, but have abandoned it to allow the fires to do the work for them.  They are moving uphill.  Though still confined mostly to Lowtown they are making their way to Hightown, and doing so with little resistance."

He did not doubt most were fleeing rather than fighting for their homes, and he couldn't very well blame them.  Unseasoned civilians were no match against the horned brutes.  Fleeing was likely saving more lives than not.  

He hoped.

"What are your orders?" He asked.

"We will need to send most of our men to Hightown, set up blockades if we can, though I fear it will be too late for that.  We must protect the Chantry and the Keep at all costs.  We will send reinforcements to the guard stationed in Lowtown as well, in attempt to put off further destruction, but our primary concerns are the Chantry and Keep."

"How is the guard fairing?" he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

"Poorly," she spat in disgust.  "Their numbers are too few and they are more suitable to dealing with skirmishes and pickpockets, not a head on confrontation by seasoned warriors." She turned back to the city, brow drawn. "The Viscount should have evicted these heathen's long ago, that useless fool."

While he couldn't help but agree with her in regards to the Qunari, neither did he fail to notice that something was absent from her preparations. "We will need the aid of the mages, Commander."

She tore her gaze from the city and narrowed her eyes at him. "We will make do without them," she said, lips twisting into a sneer.

He was shocked by her dismissal. Surely she could see they were sorely needed?  Healers should be called at the very least, not only for the Templar forces but for guardsmen and civilians as well.  Elementalists would also go far towards disheartening the Qunari who bore a well-known fear of magic.  The mages could prove vital to ensuring victory. At the very least, they would be useful in preventing at least some loss of life.

"You would risk the city rather than seek their aid?" he asked.

She turned back to him, eyes cold, expression unreadable, "The mages have been unruly," she stated, "I will not risk setting them loose."

He felt a cold dread in his stomach.  He knew she had become reclusive over the years, he had been accepting of it, thought it due to the tension within the city, but he had ignored rumors of her paranoia, even defended her on occasion.  Had he been wrong to do so? Across the bay the screams seemed to grow louder.

"Send the senior enchanters, Commander, each with a dispatch of knights.  They can offer support and their healing skills will be much needed," he entreated.

"And what is to stop them from turning on us once they are out there?" she bit out.

"The Templars themselves!" he shouted, incredulous that she would be so set against such a thing. "That is our duty!" Several knights behind him voiced their agreement, strengthening his resolve. 

She leveled him with a cold glare, clenching her jaw.  They held gazes for several seconds, his unwillingness to back down must have shown; eventually she relented.   "If this backfires it will be on your head, Knight-Captain," she threatened, and he had no doubt she was sincere in that threat.  She motioned towards a squire, "Fetch the First Enchanter, tell him to bring only those mages he trusts.  See that they are given staves and lyrium draughts and have them readied immediately."

"Yes, Commander," the boy responded before hurrying towards the circle.

Meredith leaned in close and said in a hiss meant only for him, " _Never_ openly defy me again, Cullen. You are _not_ Commander here, and would do well to remember your place."

She stepped back and steadily met her narrowed gaze, nodding to her curtly.

"I will be at the Chantry, seeing to the safety of the Grand Cleric, you will see to the defense of Hightown," she stated, adding, "Do not fail in this."

He knew he would pay for his words later, but at this moment he could not find it within himself to care.  Saving the city was his primary concern.  Should some mages escape in the chaos they could hunt them down later, with the phylacteries it would not be a difficult task.   But now was not the time to worry about such trivial matters.  Not when the city was being turned to ash.

Along with a group of his most trusted knights he boarded the next ferry and made his way to Hightown.

 

 

Hours later adrenaline pumped through his veins and his body sang with the strength of his swings.  The Qunari had spread throughout the city, destroying anything and everyone in their path.  His knights had been dispatched throughout Kirkwall, strengthening the forces of the city guard and taking out Saarabas and Qunari along the way.  Everywhere he turned he found more of them, for every Qun he downed another stepped forward. But he would not give up, they would not take the city, not while he drew breath.

Despite the Commander's reservations the mages were working nearly seamlessly with the Templars, healing as they were needed and occasionally slowing down the advancing Qun with well places bolts of lightning or walls of ice.  Two had fallen that he had seen, and half a dozen or more Templars besides, but they continued on and fought, in his mind, just as valiantly as his knights did.

The Quinari were endless.  Endless in their strength and persistence and wanton destruction. Despite their claims of order, of direction, they were heartless savages in battle, striking down anything which moved.   But they were not alone in their determination.  His men fought just as ruthlessly, saving all that they could and cutting down any who opposed them.

He saw her once, briefly.  She'd been knocked down and one of the horned beasts moved to deliver the killing blow.  His heart clenched in his chest and he'd nearly left his men to defend her, but the white haired elf appeared in a flash, and Cullen could have sworn he saw the man plunge his hand through the Qunari's chest.  When he saw she was not in immediate danger he turned to engage another foe.  When he turned back she was gone.

He was not certain how long the fighting lasted, time was distorted in a haze of blood and fury, but in the early morning light the Qunari were being driven from the city.  His heart sang and the sight of their backs.  With renewed vigor he and his knights chased the retreating force through the gates, cutting down stragglers and injured alike. Exhausted as he was, Maker help him, he felt alive. Though his training called for control in all things, and despite years of contemplation, bloodlust still filled him. 

The cries of victory rang out, muffled at first, but louder and more insistent as time wore on.  Then word finally reached them, the Arishock had been defeated at the keep, the Qunari were retreating.  The name on the lips of those who were spreading the tale did not surprise him.  It could be no one else.  He made his way towards the keep, towards _her_ , and was just steps from the landing when the doors opened and she emerged from within. 

His breath caught at the sight of her. Despite her injuries she looked for all the world like a warrior goddess of old. Her eyes shone bright and victorious in her face, and her bearing was nothing short of regal.   She was magnificent, and his blood, already hot, surged at the sight of her.  He had never felt such want, such desire, in all his life.

They regarded each other silently for a moment before another familiar figure stepped out behind her. He was loathe to tear his gaze from hers but he did so, addressing his superior first.

"Commander, we've pushed the last of the Qunari from Hightown.  I've sent men to the docks and Lowtown to assist with the fires and see to the injured.    Two patrols have been sent to assist the guard with rescue, and two more will be deployed once the healers have seen to their wounds."

"You've done well, Captain," Meredith said coolly. She stepped forward, coming to stand beside Hawke. Her chin raised she looked down at the other woman briefly. "I present you Kirkwall's newest Champion," the dislike was clear in tone. "Serah Hawke defeated the Arishock in single combat, and is responsible for their abrupt departure."

He fought an unexpected urge to drop down to his knee before her.  He did not need to look at Meredeth's face to know that any such action would be unwise, and he had already pushed his luck this night. Instead he made a bow, “Messere Hawke, Kirkwall is in your debt."

She disengaged herself from the white haired elf whom she had been leaning on support and took an uneven step forward.  "And yours, Knight-Captain," she answered.  She took a second step forward and lowered her voice, "I am glad to see you still with us, Cullen."

"And I you, Hawke," he responded honestly, fighting the urge to touch her, grab her, pull her to him.

The Knight-Commander stepped forward, closing the distance between them, forcing them apart, her countenance severe. "I've suggested that the Champion return to her estate.  I trust you will return to your duties?" He did not like the sudden, possessive gleam in Meredith's eye.  He was dedicated to the order, yes, but he was not hers to own.

However, now was not the time to make a point. He inclined his head, "Of course, Commander," he bowed once more to the magnificent female beside her, "Hawke," he said quietly, before turning back towards his men.

 

**CULLEN:**

It was well into the next evening before he dared to consider returning to the Gallows.  He was in desperate need of a hot meal, a hot bath, and a comfortable bed.  His men were just as tired, and he directed them to go on without him, telling them he would meet up with them later.

They had lost seventeen knights, too many in his estimation, but a much smaller number than what the city guard had lost.  Three mages had fallen as well, with a fourth close to death last he had heard, and two more either dead, escaped, or lying injured somewhere.

The remaining mages had willingly, if reluctantly, returned to the circle, replaced by others as they set up areas within each section of the city to see to healing of all who required it.   Brothers and sisters of the chantry moved about, offering prayer and performing rights over the bodies of the dead. Several groups of Templars continued to patrol, ensuring that looting was kept to a minimum along with the overstretched guard.

Corpses were being hauled from the city towards the coast, where they would be burned and the final rights spoken.  The bodies of the Qunari were taken as well, to be burned in mass pyres. The streets were being cleared and cleaned already, a great effort on behalf of the chantry, guard and citizens combined, though it would be some time before all vestiges of the battle were gone.  But with luck rains would come soon, to wash away the blood in the streets, and the city would recover.

He hadn't realized he had stopped moving until someone muttered 'Pardon,' behind him.  He took a step forward out of their way, inspecting the intricate Amell crest on the manor before him.  Without thinking he raised his hand and knocked at the door. 

The dwarf answered,"Messere?"

"Knight-Captain Cullen," he said, "to see Hawke, if you would."

The dwarf's brows rose but he stepped back, "Of course Messere," he said, allowing Cullen to enter behind him and indicating he should take a seat on one of the benches while he waited.  He did not sit, for fear he'd fall asleep the moment he got off his feet, and instead paced. The foyer was cool, though he could see a warm fire burning in the room beyond.

"Cullen?" Hawke asked from the doorway.  She was wearing a tunic and breeches rather than armor, her hair in it's usual messy bun. He noticed she was no longer limping, though she appeared as tired as he felt.  She, at least, looked clean, the same could not be said of himself.

"Hawke," he began, uncertain what he intended to say now that she stood before him.

She tilted her head and regarded him, waiting for him to continue.  When he didn't she took a step towards him.  "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," he said simply, continuing to take in her features.

She moved closer to him, her brow furrowing with worry, "Are you... alright?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

He took a step towards her, grabbed her around the waist to haul her towards him and crushed his mouth against hers.

 _Sweet Andraste,_ her lips tasted better than he'd imagined.  Soft and cool they felt like silk beneath his. She froze at first, obviously as surprised as he was by his actions, but it was short lived, and with a sigh she relaxed.  Her mouth was hot and soft and oh, so willing.  Her body stretched itself against him as she raised herself to return the kiss, arms wrapping around his neck.  It was all he could do not to tear his breastplate off and feel her against him, all angles and muscle and perfect firm flesh.

He deepened the kiss instead, slanting his mouth over hers and forcing her to open under him, taking as much as he dared; and Maker, did she ever give in return.  Her fingers wove their way through his matted and sweaty hair and she moaned against his mouth.  At such sound he could not help but pull her against him more firmly, hand slipping down her graceful back to grip her arse.

"Cullen," she whispered against his mouth. The plea in her voice was nearly his undoing.

He reluctantly ended the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, pleased that her breath was as ragged as his own.  He took a step back, removing all contact between them. It was agonizingly difficult to do so.

"I have to go," he muttered, paying little attention to the words he spoke and instead devouring the sight of her half lidded eyes and parted lips. "I need to report to the Gallows."

"But you'll return?" she asked, a note of uncertainty there.

He very nearly laughed at that.  "I assure you, Hawke, the Maker himself could not keep me from you," he vowed before turning and exiting.

 

 

**HAWKE:**

Cullen had kissed her.

He had kissed her with a skill she was unprepared for, with a passion she hadn't expected, and with a sort of need she had never known.

When he had been announced by Bohdan she thought he had come to seek her aid, which she would have been more than happy to give.  Then he'd gone and pulled her against him as though she belonged to him and fit his mouth over hers as though they were made for each other, and quite honestly, set her world on its ear.

She wasn't going to pretend for a second that she hadn't thought about such a thing, but she really hadn't expected it to happen. Though she had been teasing him for years, at least, since before knew of the stunning Colette, she never really expected it.  He'd shown nothing but unwavering restraint in regards to her behavior the entire time, never once faltering. Quite frankly, she was fairly certain he saw her as more annoyance than a temptation.  For all the one-sided flirting over the years she simply hadn't seen it coming.

Oh, over the past year or so their relationship had improved.  Ever since she'd given him that register, really. She supposed that they both knew more about each other now than they had previously; and perhaps even more about themselves in return.  There was a comfortable familiarity now, or, at least so much as the composed and reserved man was capable of, she thought.  They weren't friends, but they were certainly more than acquaintances.

Which posed a bit of a problem.

She'd been physically attracted to him from the start, and she respected him as well.  But now, well now she knew he had a sense of humor, and a certain charm she hadn't expected.   She knew now that he was a man with compassion, even if such a thing was difficult to earn, and had overcome trials the likes of which she hadn't expected.

Desiring the man was one thing.

Caring was something else entirely.


	18. Intermission

So I had hoped to get the next part up PRIOR to the release of DA:I – which at this point isn’t going to happen since the release is **TOMORROW!** Life has kept me very busy, and while I have A LOT written (20,000+ words!) it’s just not quite right yet… I’ve changed the story some to tie in with the beginning of DA:I and it requires a bit more reworking before I’m ready to post.

Never fear though, I shall be continuing. In fact, I should have something up sooner rather than later… but I have a feeling a lot of my free time in the coming weeks will be devoted to my Inquisitor!

Thanks everyone for your comments and kudos.  Much love to you all... and I hope everyone has a fantastic time playing DA:I! 


	19. Chapter 19

**Cullen:**

"The Maker himself could not keep me from you." Twelve day prior was what he had said to Hawke and twelve days prior that was what he had meant.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the Maker himself which kept him away.

Because of the extensive damage to the city, the docks in particular, as well as far too many injured and an overstretched guard, it was deemed necessary that the Templar's intervene and oversee the work. The result of course was a shortage of manpower, a contingent of exhausted and often ill-tempered knights, and the complete inability to find even a few hours to himself which weren't better spent catching up on whatever small amount of sleep he could get.

In addition, Meredith had been spending more time at the keep assuming the duties of Viscount, and leaving the Gallows in Cullen's care with her absence. Meredith's temporary assumption of the role had been surprisingly uneventful, with only a handful of nobles protesting. Most, he thought, were likely too busy mourning to even notice.

He hoped that within a few weeks the nobility would provide a suitable candidate as Viscount and Meredith would return to her rightful place. Though the Commander seemed more than satisfied with her temporary position, Cullen himself did not think it wise she occupy it for long. He was fairly certain the Chantry thought the same. There had been whispers that Orlais was growing concerned with the state of affairs in Kirkwall. Given the events of the past two weeks the Chantry's concern was not unfounded.

However, for the moment what was done was done, and either way, he had no say in the matter. At present he had more pressing matters to think about. Namely that twelve days and some hours ago he had kissed Hawke in her foyer and vowed he would return, and for the first time since that moment he finally had the opportunity to see it fulfilled.

Since he'd made his decision, for what it was worth, there was no going back so far as he was concerned. Though not impulsive by nature, he'd sealed his fate the moment he kissed her, and now he felt as though he was rushing headlong into something beyond his control... and he could not recall the last time he felt such exhilaration.

He'd been given the evening off because the Chantry was performing a special service for those who had passed during the attack. Though it was likely in bad form to look forward to such an event, he knew that Hawke would be in attendance. He, however, would not. Instead he waited without until she made her appearance.

His eyes found her as she paused on the Chantry steps, speaking quietly with the same brother he'd seen her with before. He ducked into an alcove, watching her, waiting for her to move away from the crowd. She spoke with the brother for several minutes before she finally moving away, blissfully alone, heading towards her estate. Unfortunately, the crowd continued to mill about slowly, there were far too many eyes and he had a feeling that discretion mattered as much to her as it did to him.

Instead he followed her, intending to wait until she was alone before making his presence known. She turned down a narrow alley which divided two buildings, a few steps behind her he continued to follow, but when he turned into the lane she was nowhere to be found. He turned around, looking for her, but was stopped by the cool kiss of metal against his throat which came swift and unseen.

"Why are you following me?" her familiar voice hissed from behind him.

He fought the urge to laugh, likely saving his skin from her blade in doing so, and responded, "Because the view you present from behind proved too pleasant to pass up?"

"Cullen?" she asked, though it was less question than statement. She removed the small dagger and he turned to face her.

"I apologize if I startled you," he began hesitantly, offering a sheepish grin, "I was hoping to gain your attention, but not that of everyone else."

She slipped the blade between a fold in her skirt, "Had I known it was you I wouldn't have threatened to slit your throat. But as you know, a lady wandering the streets alone invites trouble, and one must be vigilant," her smile was wide and crooked and utterly charming; he fought the urge to kiss her then and there.

"I believe we have... “ he paused, "some unfinished business between us."

"I did not know if you would..." she responded, a light blush on her cheeks, the color becoming on her.

"I told you I would, and I meant it. I'm not one to make false promises, and had I even an hour to myself over the past days I would have found you sooner," he said, eyes locked on her lush mouth.

"I am heading home, alone as you can see, and I have no plans for this evening," she said, her voice soft, near breathless, "Give me a few moments to give my staff the night off, and meet me at the servants entrance."

He nodded, it seemed Hawke was every bit as discreet about her personal affairs and he was about his, which suited him well enough. Gossip was exchanged more often than coin within Kirkwall, and it would probably not suit either of them to have their names linked by such a clandestine meeting.

"I will be there," he promised.

 

 

**Hawke:**

Through the alleys and narrow passages of Hightown she gripped her skirts in her hands and raised the hem to keep herself from tripping and ran, only releasing them and slowing her gait when she had to cross one of the main thoroughfares. The corset she was wearing restricted her breathing, and no doubt her face was flushed from her lack of air, but if any who greeted her in passing noticed something amiss none said anything. Before long the door slammed behind her finally and she called out between breaths, "Bohdan?! Orana!?"

"Mistress?" the latter asked, rushing into the entry, "Messere," said the other, rising from the bench he occupied with his adoptive son who in turned responded with "Enchantment?"

"I was wondering if the three of you would like an evening off?" she asked hopefully while still trying to catch her breath.

"Is something wrong, Messere?" Bohdan asked with concern.

"No. No. Nothing at all... I simply wish to have a bit of , um... privacy this evening," she managed to get out, hoping her blush was not too noticeable.

In all the years Bohdan was in residence she had never made such a request of him. The dwarf's eyebrows rose, clearly understanding her intent, but saying nothing of it, "And do you wish us to spend the entire evening away, Messere?" he asked.

She pulled out her purse, counting out far too many coins but hardly caring, and handed them over. "Yes, if you do not mind. Find yourselves a room at an inn, enjoy an evening out? I won't have need of you until tomorrow morning, if it's no trouble."

"Of course it's no trouble Messere, no trouble at all," and Bohdan, bless him, ushered the other two towards their rooms to gather cloaks and shoes without ever indicating even the slightest amount censure. The three of them left within minutes and she finally allowed her mind to wander.

Days had passed and she's not seen or heard from Cullen. No doubt he had been busy, as had she, which accounted for is absence. Still, doubt had woven its way through her thoughts on his kiss and his vow to return. He'd clearly been exhausted when he'd come to her that evening, perhaps not even thinking clearly, and she'd begun to believe he'd regretted his actions. But his expression and words just minutes before had left little doubt in her mind that he sought her out this evening with no intention of apologizing for his actions and retreating on his word.

He was coming for her. He wanted her. _Desired_ her. And she would give him all he wanted and more if he would allow it. She knew that this... whatever it was, could not last, would not last, not given their respective positions in life.  But Maker help her, she would enjoy every moment of it while she could.

Her heart jumped in her throat at the sound of a knock from the rear entrance and she moved to open the door in half a daze.

His broad shoulders filled the frame and they stared silently at one another for a breath before he took a step over the threshold, kicked the door shut behind him, and slanted his mouth over hers.

 

**Cullen:**

He was on her the moment the door closed behind them, he could not help himself. The anticipation, the need he felt consumed by grew with each step he had taken towards her. The ten minute walk from the chantry to her estate had nearly been his undoing. When the door opened to reveal her, an uncertain smile upon her mouth, he had only a brief moment of hesitation before ducking his head the few inches he needed for his lips to meet hers. He'd heard the door close behind them, along with her gasp of surprise.

And by Andraste, her lips were even sweeter then he remembered. This time clad only a in tunic and breeches and she a gown he could finally feel her against him, all angles and lean strength, warm and solid against him. Soon his hands were in her hair, pins falling free and hitting the stone floor with faint plinks he could barely make out between their mingled breaths. Her hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer, and giving up everything she had in return.

She pulled away eventually, disentangled her limbs from his, and led him deeper into the house, towards her chambers he hoped, or the nearest soft surface to be found where he could lay her down. Luck, it seemed, was not with them.

They'd not quite made it halfway across the hall when a voice could be heard calling out to her from the entry. They pulled apart quickly and she motioned towards the study.

"I will get rid of them," she said in a hushed voice.

He pulled her to him again and pressed his lips below her ear, "Hurry," he said, nipping at her jaw, "I fear I cannot wait much longer," he hoped she understood he did not exaggerate.

She pushed him through the study door and closed it behind her. He took to pacing the length of the room, trying to get himself under some semblance of control. He felt like a green boy with his first crush, as though he would come undone at any moment. In fact, it very much felt as though if he didn't get closer to her, taste more of her skin, feel more of her form that his world would simply end. That he would cease to exist.

This tension, this need for her had been building - not for the mere days since he had kissed her, but since the very start. Since the very day she'd sauntered into his life, cocksure and full of herself, and now she was finally within reach and he could hardly contain the power of his want. Never in his life had he felt such desire, and his control, which she had been testing since the very beginning, he feared was no longer his.

She returned, shutting the door behind her, and looking at him with the same sort of all-consuming need he himself felt. He approached her in two long strides and set his mouth to hers once more. He pressed her against the door of the study, and began working her gown from her shoulders, his mouth eagerly following the path of his hands. Her own were tugging at his clothing roughly, he leaned back long enough to rid himself of his tunic and shirt, tossing them carelessly to the floor before pulling at the ties of her gown. He was unable to get very far. Whether it was some cruel knot her maid had worked into the lacings or the fact his hands were shaking so badly he was simply incapable of doing so.

He pulled back impatiently, "Help me undo this gown or so help me I will rip it from you."

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and she looked at him with the same kind of hunger he felt before her hands raised themselves to her lacings, loosening it enough to slide it over her hips, stepping out of it and letting it fall to the floor. He very nearly growled at the sight she presented him. Her corset was a serviceable affair of white linen. It was not meant to be enticing or seductive, but the simple femininity of it on her strong, lithe frame set his blood to flame.

Still, as much as he would have liked to enjoy the view, he had more pressing matters at hand, primarily, getting her out of it.

"Turn around," he demanded and she complied, presenting him with the long line of her back and the intricate laces knotted along the garment. He eyed the affair for a moment before deciding that Hawke could afford new laces. Removing a knife he kept tucked in his boot he muttered, "I apologize in advance," before cutting her free. She gasped as the corset let go and fell to the ground. He made quick work of her shift as well, tossing it behind him before gripping her hips and turning her around to face him once more.

She didn't smell like any woman he'd been with before. No perfume or powder had ever touched her skin. Armor oil and soap and a slight bite of sweat; it was simply her, and it was intoxicating. She didn't feel like any other woman he'd been with either. She was more muscled than he had thought she'd be, densely packed with it in fact, her limbs ropey and lean. There was little softness about her. Her breasts were small and could not fill out his hands, but he could find no reason to care when she mewled as he took one taught peak between his teeth.

Her very skin was different from any woman he'd known. She had callouses on her hands and a spot on her shoulder where her pauldron must rub. He found it with his fingers first, his mouth second. Scars, small and neat, large and uneven, covered precious inches of her skin, each and every one a testament to her strength. Her hair, maker helps him, it wasn't braided or stiffened or elaborately coiffed. He was able to card his fingers through it easily, silky soft strands that he tangled his fingers in to pull her mouth closer to his.

She didn't pull away when his grip tightened, nor when his mouth nipped at her skin or his hands pawed her roughly. No, she simply gasped and moaned and treated him to much of the same. Pushing her smalls aside he found her, already wet and ready for him, and she let loose the most delicious sound when he easily slid one finger inside her, followed by a second. He curled them inside her before he began thrusting them in and out, the heel of his hand grinding against the sensitive flesh at her apex. She shuddered and twisted and widened her stance, giving him more access while reaching for the fastenings of his breeches.

He moved them into the room, eyes searching out a place to lay her down, but then her hand closed around him. Her touch on his cock was not light or teasing, but firm and sure and he shuddered, giving up his search and instead pressed her against a bookcase and grinding himself into her palm.  Her touch, pushed him to the edge and he could wait no longer.

He removed his hand from where it readied her and hooked one of her long supple thighs around his hips, gripping the base of his cock he slipped the head between her folds, coating himself with her fluids. Pulling back just far enough to look down at her flushed face he surged forward, her body giving way easily and taking him within her silky sheath. Her eyes shut her lips parted, whatever sound she was going to make soon swallowed by his own groan. He gave himself a moment to savor the way they fit together so perfectly, a moment for her to adjust, before he began moving inside her.

He kept his pace slow, methodical, in time with their breaths. Deeply, but pacing himself, trying to retain whatever tenuous rein on his control that he had. Her body seemed made for his, grasping greedily at his cock, pulling him deeper, and he wanted nothing more than to let go and loose himself in her, but he refrained.

She must have noticed, because it was not long she said, her voice breathy, and low, "You're holding back."

"I don't want to hurt you," he admitted.

She reared her head back, meeting his eyes for a moment before her mouth twisted in to the very same lopsided and cocksure grin which had haunted his thoughts for so long. "Cullen," she chided, her tone teasing, "hurt me?" Her gaze, half lidded and lazy with lust just a second before, took on a challenging glint he knew so well.

Whatever blood he had left in his head chose that moment to vacate.

His hands tightened against her hips and he pushed her firmly against the bookcase behind her, jarring her hard enough to cause her let out a small, surprised, but most assuredly pleased gasp. Several books fell to the ground and he glanced down to see her anchoring herself with one foot, the other leg tightened behind him. He pulled out of her until he was just at her entrance and slammed home, giving her no time to catch her breath before pulling out to thrust back in once more. Her gasps and cries, and Maker have mercy, her _pleas_ , assured him the frantic pace he set was more than acceptable, and her nails digging into his shoulders assured him she was more than capable of hanging on. Books were jostled, some fell to the ground; a few landing rather painfully on his feet, but his simply shifted his weight and drove on.

It was moments before he could tell she was close, her breaths became more shallow, her cries more desperate. She buried her face against his neck, stifling her moans, but he would have none of it. He grabbed her by the hair and forcibly removed her mouth from his skin, "No, I want to hear you."

Her lips parted, and her eyes widened slightly as she looked up at him in surprise before responding, "Yes... yes," she breathed. "...anything you want. Anything."

He rode every whimper, every plea of more and harder, each cry of his name and every twist and turn of her gloriously muscled body until finally, with a gasp and final arch of her spine she came, wrapping both her legs about him, pulling him deeper as her body clenched and quivered around him. He followed soon after, his own cry of pleasure echoing against the stone walls.

They rested there for several minutes, her legs still wrapped around his hips, catching their breath. He pressed his lips to her collar bone, noticing the bruising already forming on her skin.

"I was too rough," he said by way of apology.

He felt her stomach clench when she laughed, "You could have done much worse," She exhaled on a sigh. "I hardly would have noticed. You were... that was... I could have wanted nothing less than what you gave me."

He felt her hands in his hair, pulling him, raising her head so that their lips could meet, sweetly this time, softly. Desire still there but the hunger within sated, for the moment at least.

She pulled away, looking up at him almost shyly, the expression endearing on her, "What now?"

It was his turn to allow a quiet chuckle to escape him, grinning down at her, "Now you will show me to your bedchamber. I am not finished with you this night."

She returned his grin, "You intend to stay the evening, Knight-Captain?"

"I do, Messere, but I do hope you do not expect to get much rest."

 

**Hawke:**

She opened her eyes in the early morning light. From what she could see through her windows, the sun not fully risen yet and the sky appeared a pale mauve just at the horizon. The fire had nearly burned out in the grate, and in the low light she could make out his sleeping form beside her. He had not exaggerated when he told her not to expect much rest the night before.

She rolled over onto her back, careful not to wake him, but couldn't help a sigh from escaping when she stretched just so. She was sore in places she'd never been sore before, but it was a pleasant ache that she could find no complaint in. She certainly had none in its cause. The first time, in the study, had been frantic, passionate almost to the point of becoming savage. The second time, when they finally made it to her chambers, had started out with at least some restraint, but had wound up becoming no less enthusiastic. But the third time, she nearly blushed to think of it. He had explored her slowly with his hands, lips and talented tongue. Savored her even. And by the time he had finished she was limp and sated and not one inch of her had been left untouched.

The Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, for all his prudish ways, was a man well skilled in pleasing a woman, she realized, and had used his considerable talents to their full extent. She dared to wonder if he had any other surprises to discover.

"Do you always wake with a smile, Hawke?" he said beside her, his voice rough with sleep.

She rolled onto her side to face him. In the low light his eyes appeared more golden than hazel, and his jaw was dappled with a days growth of beard only a shade darker. His full lips were just barely curled upwards in contentment and she could feel her smile growing wider at the sight of it.

"I could ask the same of you," she said.

He chuckled, a deep sound she had never heard from him, but it quite nearly reminded her of a purr. "I confess that I do not. It is rare that I have such reason to." His smiled in truth, exposing straight white teeth and she was caught once more by how beautiful he was.

She reached a hand out toy with the hair upon his chest, still in wonderment that he was here, with her. "Well, I for one am very glad to be here to experience this rare occurrence," she responded.

"As am I, messere. As am I," he murmured and rolled over, forcing her onto her back and lowered his mouth to hers.

Hawke decided that she could easily become a morning person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, this has been a long time coming. I know a few of you are still following, I hope the rest of you hadn't given up on me! 
> 
> Hey - look at that Kudos button! Right next to a comment box. You guys should use one or the other - or even better yet, both! It might just keep me from making you wait so long for the next part!


	20. Chapter 20

**HAWKE:**

Over the next few weeks, Hawke remained busy. That in itself wasn't anything new or surprising. There was always someone who needed something, and her reputation for getting things done had been well earned and her services were in great demand. She was never one for resting on her laurels anyway, as inaction generally left her feeling anxious and, quite honestly, useless.

While the city was putting itself to rights she was busy assisting its citizens with efforts best not left to the guard, who were overextended anyway. Much of her work was less than pleasant, and nothing she could find either pleasure or release in. Searching for people missing since the battle was typically a thankless task, given that more often than not she was forced to return with unfortunate news and her customers left in tears. It was grim work, but grim work which needed doing.

Fortunately, not all of her hours were spent devoted to such misery.

She stretched, her body was sore once again, and once more she could not find cause for complaint. Especially considering what the reason for her ache was currently pressing his lips to that spot just below her jaw he knew drove her absolutely crazy.

He slid the blanket down her body, exposing her to the late afternoon light. Instinctively she moved to cover herself, which earned her a chuckle from him. "Surely after the past weeks you have no reason to shield yourself from me? I've seen you in your entirety," He lowered his head to whisper in her ear, "tasted you, too."

Her blush deepened, "There is little to see."

He chuckled low in his throat, "I do find it ironic that the woman who once snuck into my quarters in the middle of the night and nearly accosted me is suddenly shy."

She hesitated for a moment, before reluctantly admitting, "I ran into Colette Theriault in the market this morning and I have been feeling less than womanly ever since."

He jerked back, clearly surprised by her words. "Colette... how did you even _know_ about that? That ended ... two years ago. Longer, actually."

"I have very reliable sources," she felt herself answering, "and last I knew it wasn't much of a secret."

"You're... actually jealous?" he said, with no small amount of humor in his expression.

She was, and she hated that about herself, it was absurd, moreover, she _knew_ it was absurd. He was here with her, not that golden haired goddess, but she couldn't quite stop herself from feeling it regardless. She glanced up to find his expression nothing short of amused, "You find this funny?"

"Yes, yes I do," he said, allowing a healthy laugh to pass his lips, "It's good to know that even you have some insecurities, misplaced as they might be, and are human after all. I will admit that Colette is very pretty..."

She snorted, something the other woman certainly would never deign to do, "She's bloody _beautiful_ , Cullen," she corrected.

"Colette is very _pretty_ ," he said firmly, clearly trying to hide his enjoyment of this moment, "and honestly quite dull."

"Well," she said, with some satisfaction, "no one has ever accused me of being _boring_."

"And I highly doubt anyone ever will," he replied. "Honestly, Hawke, she cannot even begin to compare to you," he said so earnestly it was easy to believe.

He didn't press for a response though, instead pulled the linen sheet from her hands. He tugged it down, exposing her meager breasts to the cool air. "I will not lie and say you have anything more than a handful," he said, eyes trained on her her, "but what you do have, as I learned, is delightfully sensitive, and certainly enough to please me." He bent down and captured the hardened tip of one between his lips and she bit her lip to keep from moaning.

He continued to move she sheets and blankets down, exposing more of her. She fought the urge, under the scrutiny, to yank them back up. As he worked his way from one breast to another, such urges vanished and soon her hands were tangling in his hair instead.

"You're sleek and lean and strong," he purred against her skin, "you are no soft little Hightown miss."

"On that we can agree," she added with a sardonic laugh.

He slid his hand between her breasts until his fingers brushed against the base of her throat, "You have a beautiful length of neck."

"Oh?" she responded, enjoying the sudden turn in conversation.

"Mmmhmm. Long, slender, graceful," he hummed his approval, leaning up and pressing his lips there and said in a serious tone of voice which was at odds with the humor dancing in his eyes "One which I have thought of strangling a hundred times, if not more."

Her head fell back against the mattress as she burst out laughing.

"And a remarkably big mouth," he said dryly, she could tell he was holding back a grin.

She turned and looked at him sharply, uncertain if she should be offended or... well, not certain how she should feel about that at all. "Pardon?"

He allowed himself that grin he was hiding, making him look so much younger than he usually seemed. With an unapologetic shrug, he said as though it was an obvious thing,"Your smile takes up most of your face."

She tried to force herself to frown, but found that her face was being unresponsive to her demands,"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" she asked, at least managing a slightly offended tone, but having some difficulty holding in her continued laughter.

"Indeed it is," he continued, his voice carefully neutral.

She had never expected this from him, this boyish charm, the teasing and playfulness and general good humor. He was happy she realized, and so was she, she could not deny it, nor did she have any desire to. She'd begun to anticipate their time together, not simply for physical release, which was, without a doubt, outstanding, but also for the the time in between. When they were able to simply be like this, and for a time shut the rest of the world away.  His company was delightful, and Cullen without his guard in place was a sight to behold.

 _But how long can it last?_ She thought to herself, and the unsettled feeling which had been haunting her with more frequency began to take hold. He looked down at her, with such warmth, such affection that she felt her throat tighten. She didn't want to hurt him with the truth. She could not bear the thought of those warm eyes gazing coldly at her in disdain. Maker help her, she didn't want to let him go either.

Unaware of her sudden change of mood he slid his lips along her throat, "Despite my enjoyment of your slender neck, or sensitive nipples, or even your enormous mouth, none can compare to one aspect of your very enjoyable figure," he said solemnly, but she could feel his smile against the skin of her neck.

She felt her answering smile, pushing away the feeling of unease once more, "And what exactly would that be?"

With a shifting of the mattress he he flipped her over with ease, causing her to squeal in surprise. "Your magnificent arse," he said solemnly, nipping at her there, "I confess, the only reason I had for not strangling you on occasion was simply to have the pleasure of watching you walk away."

She buried her face in the pillow, stifling her laughter, though her entire body shook with it.

He cupped her, squeezing and kneading, and pushing her back down when she attempted to roll towards him. "For years I have lusted after this lovely part of your anatomy," he said, punctuating the statement with a sharp bite of his teeth. "It is everything I dreamed and more," he said reverently, stroking a hand down her flank. "Even better now that it bears an imprint of my hand."

"It does not!" she cried, no longer even trying to hold back her laughter.

That glorious sound again, a resounding chuckle from deep inside him, how that sound warmed her. "It does, I'm afraid," he said almost apologetically.

"So, you left me something to remember you by," she said, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.

"I have an hour before I must return to the Gallows. If you'd like I'll happily give you more reasons to remember me," he suggested, eyes once more crinkled with humor, gaze warm and welcome.

"I would like that very much," she couldn't help but respond. She tried to roll over and face him once again, but he held her in place.

"Before I begin," said as he made his way up her body, licking and nibbling along her spine. Placing a kiss on her neck and stretching himself alongside her he spoke, "Let me just say that, despite my fondness for many of your delightful parts, it's the whole of you which holds me utterly in thrall, my lady." He allowed her to turn over then, and placed a soft kiss on her lips, "You have come to mean a great deal to me, Hawke, and I can assure you, there is no one who could hope to compare to you in my eyes," he finished, his thumb brushing along her jaw.

She felt a thud in her chest, but it wasn't a warming bloom or tender spark... no, it was as though someone had shoved a blade into her heart, and a cold pit of dread settled there. _'I have to tell him,'_ she thought, eyes stinging with tears she dare not let fall. _'I have to tell him, and he will hate me for it.'_

But, coward that she was, she did not. Instead raised herself up and kissed him with every feeling she dared not put into words.

 _'I have to tell him'_ she thought again, _'but let us have this moment.'_


	21. Chapter 21

**CULLEN:**

Days passed, then weeks and soon whole months went by. The city began to recover, physically at least. Repairs were complete in Hightown, the work in Lowtown taking longer, but nearing the end. The docks had suffered the worst of the damage due to the fires, and much of the area still in shambles, but ships were being brought in again and trade was once more underway. Though it would be months more before the area was fully functioning again. For the time being the Templars were no longer needed to oversee the work.

Though Meredith did have words to spare regarding his decision to insist on including the mages in the defense of Kirkwall, she had been too busy filling in at the keep to offer a true reprimand. Cullen could not regret his decision, regardless. He believed that had the mages not been present both the Templars and the guard would have suffered much heavier losses, not to mention they were able to keep destruction of much of Hightown to a minimum, and likely prevented much of the destruction of Lowtown as well.

However, he was not so foolish as to not see the rift his decision had caused between he and his commander, who did in fact, seem to hold him with far less regard than previously. What trust she had in him previously was certainly less now, which was no doubt the cause for her insistence that she personally see to appointing a second for him while he oversaw the gallows. A second who any could see was clearly her lackey, and one he would have never chosen for himself.

He had never liked Karras, nor did he trust him. The feeling was, without any doubt, mutual, as there had always been an undercurrent of animosity between the them since the first time they met. He expected the reports Karras was giving Meredith were anything but glowing and would not be surprised if certain situations were exaggerated, if not lied about entirely.

Prior to Karras' appointment Thrask had been seeing to many of Cullen's former duties. He had been handling the position well, and he also had seniority, and Cullen attempted make Meredith see reason. Unfortunately, she would not budge on the issue, and he was not fool enough to push her too far.

Fortunately for him, Karras might be Meredith's eyes, but even he couldn't keep tabs on Cullen at all times.

In what little free time he was given he took every available opportunity to slip, hopefully unseen, into Hawke's estate. Their time together was sporadic at best, sometimes going a week or more between visits due to the demands of both of their schedules, but each and every moment he spent with her was... well, treasured, to say the least.

"You've been in a good mood of late," Thrask commented one morning in the practice yard.

"Is that so?" Cullen replied. He had been in a good mood, with good reason.

"I'm not the only one who has noticed," the older man continued, "a few of the men have mentioned it as well. Those who aren't terrified of you, at least."

He continued to swing, considering the reasons had been in such fine spirits.

"Most have surmised that you're simply content now that the difficulties with the Qunari are finally over with," Thrask continued to speak, Cullen continued to ponder.

He switched arms, feeling a ghost of a smile touch his lips when he felt a twinge in his shoulder. He'd jarred it a few nights ago carrying Hawke to the nearest flat surface he could find and had tripped on some discarded piece of clothing along the way, falling with her in his arms. He had twisted to prevent her from being crushed under his weight and had landed on his shoulder, wrenching it badly

"Understandable, of course, a stressful situation for the entire city," Thrask seemed to be saying, though Cullen was still recalling his tumble with Hawke and was paying very little attention to the other man's words.

When he had hit the ground with her on top of him he had let out a brief, but colorful string of curses. Hawke had stared at him wide eyed for a moment before she had burst out laughing, saying that she didn't think the 'the staid Captain,' even knew what half those words meant.

"Though I have to wonder if it isn't something else," the older Knight said, though the words didn't quite register.

Despite Hawke's laughter at the time, or because of it, he'd then proceeded to prove just how depraved the staid Captain could be, turning her laughter into low moans and breathy gasps. They never did make it off the floor.

"Oddly enough, I've heard the same thing said about Hawke just recently."

The offhand use of her name being said jerked him back into the present, and he hesitated mid swing, disrupting his balance. It was enough for Thrask to notice, causing the other man to let out a low laugh. "Nothing to worry about though. I wouldn't want to be responsible for starting such a rumor."

Cullen could feel a brief heat stinging his face, "I appreciate your discretion."

"Yes, well, just be certain to continue with your own. That information would not be welcomed by some."

Of that he was certain. "I do not doubt it, though I have to wonder how you came by this knowledge."

"I happen to be part of an ongoing card game with Varric Tethras."

"The beardless dwarf," Cullen commented dryly.

"That would be the one," Thrask admitted, "It did not take long for the two of us to put the pieces together. Though Varric takes most of the credit. I didn't actually believe him at first, you and Hawke are... well, not very much alike."

"Oh that we agree," he admitted. What was it they said about opposites attracting?

"Just... be careful. I'm sure you realize you're being watched, but I don't know if you realize how closely."

"Something I'm not aware of?"

"Karras has a few squires on his payroll I believe. I don't doubt yours is a good lad, but... boys will talk. Just, use caution, even when you think you're alone."

He nodded once, "I will take that under advisement."

"Speaking of Karras, onto other things," the other knight intoned more seriously. It was not uncommon for the two of them to discuss matters of business during their morning training sessions. "The missing apprentices," Thrask said, face suddenly grim.

Over the past six weeks two apprentices had gone missing. The boys, both youths of no more than fifteen, had simply vanished. Though escapes happened from time to time, both boys went missing in the middle of the night, while secured in their quarters. That in itself was highly unusual. Typically when mages escaped they did so during specific times. When they were released from their cells in the morning, when they were returned to them at night. Meal times, during the crush in the narrow halls when there was an assemblage or they were going to prayer.

But never in the middle of the night.

"Its Karras," Thrask stated.

"How can you be sure?" Cullen asked, though he did not completely doubt the accusation.

"When I was reassigning the guard, some of the mages came to me with suggestions as for whom to remove from the roster," Thrask said. "His name was mentioned with alarming frequency. Though I had few details, the mages, I promise you, do not trust that man. There was definitely an undercurrent of fear in regards to him."

Cullen sighed and was reminded of the letter he'd received from Irving, and thought to himself, _'because they were afraid to.'_

"And of course none came to speak out about him before you started your task," It was a statement, not a question.

Thrask answered anyway, "No, they did not. Nor have there been any formal complaints about him. However, the timing cannot be denied. Now that he's your second he's once again enjoying more freedom on the roster and more access to the mages, and two apprentices go missing in the middle of the night without any trace. Suspicious, yes?"

He had to agree on that. "Keep an eye on him," Cullen said, nodding. "Keep several eyes on him, if you can. If you hear or see anything let me know. If we find suitable evidence I'll have him sent to Aeonar myself."

Thrask snorted, "You think the Commander would allow one of her favorites sent to prison?"

"To the void with what she thinks," he said, ignoring the way Thrask's brow rose to his hairline. "If what you suspect is true I'll see that honorless cur out of the order," he stated just as firmly.

"Of course, Captain," Thrask said, a satisfied smirk on his face. "You can trust that I take very seriously."

Their conversation was interrupted when a shout rang out through the training yard, urgent and clear. He and Thrask shared a look before quitting their positions, sheathing their weapons and running towards the source of the commotion. They both knew what that cry meant, and they both dreaded the sound.

The small courtyard behind the mage quarters, his hair stood on end as the lyrium in his blood began tingling with the magic in the air. Just through the gates they found their quarry. Already one young knight was down, twitching and writhing in agony against the paving stones, likely near death, or worse, possession. The sight did not hold his gaze long, however, for the worst of his fears was realized in the form of silvery flesh and sensual grace. A desire demon, in the circle. In _his_ circle, _again_.

He'd not faced one of its kind, not since then. Not since Kinloch hold. Others, assuredly; rage demons and fear demons and envy demons aplenty, and even once a hulking pride demon which had nearly destroyed the main hall and cost one knight and two recruits their lives. But since Ferelden he'd not once been forced to face the creature from his nightmares.

The second he stepped foot into the courtyard it looked at him, it met his eye like it _knew_ , as though it was the very same creature who haunted his memories to this day. He felt, for a moment, a urge to freeze under it's knowing gaze, his training failing him momentarily in his very present and very real fear. Once more those words so memorable echoed in his mind, once more those doubts it had filled him with surfaced.  Remembering himself he pushed past the fear. The demon had not beaten him all those years ago, and this one would not do so now. Raising one hand before him he drew on the power he had within, and with the other, he drew his sword. Karras at his side did the same, they parted, circling it.

The demon never stood a chance.

Afterwards he retired to his quarters to gain some control over his racing heart and frayed nerves, but could find no purchase.  After a time he decided another balm would would go far in soothing him, and instead sought out the one person who could put both his mind and his body to ease.

Unfortunately, frayed nerves did little to ensure precaution from vengeful eyes.


	22. Chapter 22

**CULLEN:**

He was a common enough sight at the Hawke estate that Bohdan never questioned his presence, simply opening the door and welcoming him before seeking out his Mistress to inform her of her guest.

"Cullen!" she said in surprise as she entered the main hall, "What are you doing here? I didn't think we had any plans to meet today?"

"I am sorry if this is a bad time, I hope it is not," he said hesitantly, "I know I've not given sufficient notice, but I needed some time away from the Gallows. This was the first place which came to mind."

"Is something wrong?" she asked, clearly concerned.

"No... well, nothing more than an unfortunate day," he said vaguely. Unwilling and unable to speak the truth. There were certain sensitive subjects they avoided, primarily his work and her views on the circle. He wished he would confide in her, and he hoped that someday he would be able to, but they had not yet reached that state in their relations. Some things he was simply not ready to divulge.  Not yet.

"Well, you are certainly more than welcome," she said, raising herself up to kiss him on his cheek. "I was just about to eat. Care to join me?"

They dined in the kitchen, and ate simple, but well prepared fare. They both preferred this over elaborate dishes and the formality of a dining hall, he suspected. Her cook, Orana, had taken her own meal elsewhere, giving them the very privacy he was hoping for. Though it was more likely to spare the shy girl embarrassment than for their own benefit. Hawke did not seem to mind her absence, serving him without complaint.

"Is that ...?" he asked, motioning toward a familiar looking keg he noticed upon a side board.

"Ferelden Ale?" she asked, her teeth flashing in a grin. "It certainly is. Would you care for some?"

"If it wouldn't be any trouble?"

She snorted and moved towards it, "You _know_ it's no trouble, Cullen," she replied, returning shortly with two tankards, setting one before him.

"Maker," he said out loud as he enjoyed his first sip, "I cannot believe how much I have missed this."

"When was the last time you had any?" She asked, cocking her head slightly in that adorably Hawke manner that had become so achingly familiar.

He thought back, only once since he had moved to Kirkwall, that he could recall. "A year or two after I first arrived. I rarely drink save for a glass of wine with supper."

"Color me surprised," she teased.

He laughed, tension easing somewhat. He took a deep draw, sighing contentedly as it hit his tongue. "I'd forgotten how much I used to enjoy this. It reminds me..." he felt himself trailing off, memories rushing to the surface of better times. He glanced at the woman beside him, no... not better times. Other times perhaps. Youthful times, innocent times, but certainly not better times.

"It reminds you... of?" she prodded.

"Ferelden. Of being young, I suppose. When I was an initiate it was not uncommon for a few of us to break curfew and spend more coin than we should have at the inn."

She raised an elbow onto the table and leaned against her hand, watching him with warm eyes, more blue than grey in the light of the fire. Her lips twitched, and he could tell she was tempted to tease him once more, but chose not to, instead deciding to poke fun at herself.

"I used to do the same," she said with another easy smile. "Oh, I drove mother and father crazy."

"I can only imagine that you were more than a bit of a handful," he said dryly.

She laughed again, joyfully and at her own expense. The sound rolled over him, rich and relaxing. He supposed it could have been the ale warming him, but he somehow doubted it.  Her expression became suddenly curious, "Is there anything else you miss about Ferelden?" she asked.

"Mmmm," he hummed affirmatively, sipping at his ale, "the seasons."

"Really? Few would agree with you."

"Oh," he sighed, drawing out the word as he leaned back against his chair, "the tower was dreadful in winter. Standing guard, shivering in your armor and feeling as though it would freeze in place. And yet... I miss those clear, sunny mornings where the air was crisp and sharp and the snow would muffle the sounds of your movement. It seemed like you could hear for miles and miles on those mornings."

A mischievous grin spread across her face,"I know what you mean. It's the _best_ of time year to jack deer from Redcliff. You could hear his men patrolling miles off."

He barked out a laugh, "Of course, when everyone else was learning a trade you were busy playing poacher."

She chuckled and shrugged, "I had a family to feed after all."

"How old were you?"

"Barely eighteen when father died, though I admit I did a bit of poaching before then," she chuckled and took another sip from her tankard. "The twins were not quite fourteen when he passed, those first two years were particularly difficult. Carver was able to earn a bit of coin from time to time. He was strong and hardworking, even then, but once the fields had been tilled and the harvest in there was little work to be had for him, and so it fell to me."

"What of his twin, Bethany?" he asked, "Did she not work as well?"

She smiled at him, though there was little mirth in her expression, and said quietly, "She was an apostate."

"Both your father and sister?" he said after a pause. "That must have been difficult."

She offered him a small smile and turned away, as though considering how much to divulge. It hurt that she still did not trust him with some things, though he was no better in his reluctance to speak of certain events in his own past. But he could not judge her on this, on protecting her family. He couldn't, even with their respective positions on the subject, he understood her desire to keep them close, to keep them safe. He hoped someday she would understand how he felt.

He reached for her and pulled her into his lap, pressed his lips against her hair before resting his chin atop her head. "I did not intend to bring up any painful memories," he said quietly, "I only wished to know you better. All this time and there is so much I do not know."

She relaxed against him, and they sat silently for some minutes, simply enjoying the closeness. Eventually she spoke, but her voice had become noticeably serious, "Cullen, we need to talk," she said, pulling back from his embrace and looking up at him with a shuttered expression he could not hope to read.

He felt a finger of dread curl itself around his heart, a knot form in his stomach no longer soothed by the ale or pleasant banter. It was not the first time that feeling of dread had visited him since their affair began, but he chose to ignore it. He would not be robbed of this, not now. He was not ready for things to change. He squared his jaw, "No," he said firmly. She parted her lips to respond but he silenced her again. "No," he said just as firmly as before, eyes locking with hers. "Whatever it is, it can wait." He lowered his voice, and said softly, "... _please._ "

She smiled, he did his best to ignore the sadness he found in it, nodded and relaxed into his embrace once more.

Though she was soft and warm and pliant in his arms, the sense of unease he'd felt for so very long, but had done his best to ignore, remained. Amongst the happiness he had found with her, the tenderness, it had lingered all this time. Ignored and pushed aside in favor instead of enjoying what he could find with her. But there it was, glaring at him so boldly once more.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around her and pressed his lips against her hair.

_This sweetness, it cannot last._

It wasn't discomfort over their differences in perspective, it was more than that, it was something dark and hidden that he had been ignoring for too long. Hawke was keeping something from him. Something big, something which _would_ change things, and Maker help him, he did not want anything to change this.

Just moments before he had been picturing her riding like a banshee through a snow covered forest, the dressed corpse of a deer flung over the saddle. Could picture her, pale cheeks flushed from exhilaration and icy winds, hair loose and flowing freely behind her. He could picture her, both of them, back in Ferelden. He could find a position at a Chantry, Redcliff perhaps, or even Amaranthine. The order wouldn't like him stepping down from the circle to play guard at a chantry, but he couldn't care less what the order wanted, not when he could have _this_.  They would have a modest house, nothing fancy, neither of them cared overmuch for opulence and with luck a child, perhaps two.

He knew, when he had allowed his mind to wander to such a prospect that she was keeping something from him. He'd known for some time but had been denying it to himself. Once in awhile her gaze would drop and refuse to meet his, she'd turn away or change the topic, and shortly thereafter smile a forced smile. The moment was usually brief, but it would fill him with a sense of foreboding that he could not entirely shake.

Yet every time that feeling rose he pushed it away.

He did not know what it could be. A child perhaps? Or even a husband, since left. Either he could look past, would look past most certainly for her. But what if...

_Sweet Andraste, let it be something I can accept,_ he silently prayed.

He held her more firmly against him.

_I will not be robbed of this._

 

 

**MEREDITH:**

Seated within the Viscounts office, Meredith did her best to keep the look of disdain from becoming too prominent on her face, but feared in light of Karras’ report such a thing was not possible. 

"You're certain of this?" she asked, the distaste apparent in her tone.

"You have my word, Commander, that it is all true," Karras responded stiffly.

_ Hawke. _  It always came down to Hawke.  That woman had wormed her way into the city, climbed as high as she could, but would not rest with simply having the populace at her feet.  No, she wanted more.  And what Hawke wanted, Hawke apparently got.

And now Hawke had her Captain.

"He goes to her estate whenever he's able, Commander, and usually spends the evening."

If she closed her eyes she could picture them, and she felt her mouth pull into a sneer. Her hand reached down and touched the pommel of her sword. The lyrium there, red and etched with the symbol of a lion, hummed in her hand.  It was like a song, that hum, one becoming more and more familiar.  One which seemed to echo her thoughts and called out for the blood of that wretched Ferelden.  It seemed unlikely that it would ever come to blows, but Meredith could still make her pay. 

"When you return to the Gallows please send Carver Hawke to my office," she said finally, a plan forming.


End file.
